The Measure of a Man
by Pipsqueak
Summary: Something mysterious has our gang back to work for the BWM. Meanwhile, Hobbes plays yenta for Darien.
1. Part 1

The Measure of a Man  
  
Author: Pipsqueak  
  
Rating: PG-13 for the most part (one section will be posted separately in both PG-13 and NC-17 versions)  
  
Spoilers: TOIM, Possessed, EoME, TNS, references to Ralph, FFH, GT, MM  
  
Category: Angst, Drama, Action, Romance (or any combination thereof. Do not fold, spindle or mutilate)  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, except for Lola and a few other sundry characters I'll name later -- everyone else belongs to Sci Fi and Stu Segall, damn them (  
  
A/N: Well, I once swore that I'd never write a sequel, just like I swore I'd never create an OFC. Apparently I am destined to eat every word I've ever said. 'Cuz this is a sequel to "Standing Still," a fanfic I originally posted back in Nov/Dec of 2001 and which features an OFC named Lola. It can be found in the Iman section at fanfiction.net (note to self: remember to send your stories to the QS archive) and while I'd recommend that you read that story first, I do think this one is capable of standing on its own. So please, read, hopefully enjoy, and feel free to contact me with any feedback or questions....  
  
Mucho thanks to Suz for being such a wonderful beta and my own personal mad scientist. Hobbsey's all yours, sweetie! :-)  
  
And an extra special 'Thank You' to Kitkat for being my on-scene expert. She's the one who made sure Darien & Hobbes wound up in a tres hip club and not at Seaworld :-p  
  
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PART 1  
  
According to the great French statesman, George Clemenceau, "A man's life is interesting primarily when he has failed -- I well know." Yeah, well so do I. In fact, by that definition, I've been a rousing success as a failure. 'Cuz I've sure had one hell of an interesting life. Not the least of which was recently when I met a really great girl and promptly made things interesting by lying to her about ... oh, I don't know, *everything*, including my name. Then I went psycho on her 'cuz I have a gland in my brain that turns me invisible and used to make me go nuts if I didn't get a shot on time. Then she got arrested and interrogated by my employer, The Agency, kinda the Kmart of the spook biz, 'cuz they thought she was with the CIA when in fact she was really just the owner of a local bakery. Oh, and did I mention that all that time we were being chased by Chrysalis, a super-secret organization bent on world domination through biotechnology? No wonder when the Chinese want to curse you they say that they "hope you live in interesting times." Yeah, the Chinese, man, don't even get me started on those guys ....  
  
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"That's it, Fawkes, I'm going in alone." Hobbes reached for the door handle and Darien grabbed him by the shoulder, stopping him.  
  
"Wait, Bobby, you can't..."  
  
"No, that's it. I'm done arguing. We've been sitting here, holed up in this van, all morning watching people come in and outta that place. Bobby Hobbes is not gonna watch one more person come through that door and walk off with the goods."  
  
"But Hobbes, you just can't walk in there alone."  
  
"Oh yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You gonna come with?"  
  
"No...."  
  
"Then watch me."  
  
Hobbes reached for the door handle again and this time Darien let him exit the van unmolested. When Hobbes was determined to do something, there was simply no stopping him. Darien sighed, slumped in his seat and watched glumly as Hobbes crossed the street. His partner stopped in front of a large shop window chock full of tempting cakes and pastries, with the name "ChezLo" painted across the top in large, cursive gold letters. Hobbes suddenly gave a firm nod of his head at the window, then entered the shop. Oh man, this was gonna be *bad*.  
  
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Five minutes later the little tiger was back, carrying a white paper sack and balancing two large coffee cups. He stopped at the driver's side door of the van and looked pointedly at Darien, who simply stared back. "C'mon, partner, open the door. Help me out here, for chrissakes."  
  
Darien sighed again -- he seemed to be doing a lot of that these days -- and opened the door for Hobbes. He took the cups from the shorter man as Bobby climbed behind the wheel. "What did you do, Hobbes?"  
  
"Whaddya mean, what did I do? I got us two latte grandes and a couple of the flakiest croissants you ever saw in your life. I mean, these things are so light, I keep expecting them to float away...."  
  
"No, what did you *do*?"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about there, partner. Bobby Hobbes didn't do nothing, but get some coffee and breakfast, well, more like brunch since you made me wait so long," he tossed the white sack at Darien, "Oh, and one of those giant cookies that you like." He grinned expectantly at Darien, who reached into the sack and pulled out a gargantuan oatmeal cookie. "What, don't I even get a 'thank you'?"  
  
"Thanks, Hobbsey," Darien said around a mouthful of cookie and swallowed. "Now tell me what else you did."  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Nothing?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"You didn't talk to her? You didn't see her?"  
  
"Numero Uno, when Bobby Hobbes says he didn't do nothing, he didn't do nothing. Numero Two-o, Lola's hardly any more likely to talk to me than she is to you, my friend. You're forgetting, I arrested her and then let Monroe interrogate her. Somehow I don't think that put me too on high on that girl's social list."  
  
"So you really didn't do anything?"  
  
"Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Bupkiss...."  
  
"OK, Hobbes, OK, I got it."  
  
"Good."  
  
"But you're sure, right? You didn't say anything to anyone...?"  
  
"Look, how many times do I got to say it? I. Didn't. Do. Nothing."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure."  
  
"OK, then." Darien sat for a few seconds, silently munching on his cookie. Halfway through it, he turned to Hobbes with furrowed brows and opened his mouth.  
  
"Don't say it, Fawkes," Bobby cut Darien off with a menacing growl.  
  
"But you're sure, Hobbes?"  
  
"Yes. Yes. I'm *sure*. In fact, I'm sure, I'm sure."  
  
"OK."  
  
They drove on for a few more minutes. This time it was Hobbes who broke the silence.  
  
"Goddammit, Fawkes, what the hell is wrong with you?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I've known you to be a whiny punk, partner. In fact, I've learned that you are the frickin' crown prince of whining: about the gland, about the Agency. Hell, I've even heard you whine about having too much salt on your popcorn at the movies, when *you* salted it. But I have never, ever heard you whine about a girl before. Not even when Casey left. So what gives? What's so different about this girl?"  
  
Darien just stared at his partner. Finally he looked down and said softly, simply, "I don't know."  
  
"Yeah? Well, I know one thing, kid, you ain't gonna find out the answer to that question by hiding in the van outside her shop."  
  
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Alex Monroe was already in the 'Fish's office when Darien and Hobbes entered, carrying the remnants of their breakfast. "You know, if you were going to make us wait," the five-star agent commented dryly, "the least you could have done was brought enough for all of us."  
  
"Gee you know, Alex, we would have gotten something at the bakery for you, but we thought you were sweet enough already," Darien deadpanned, throwing her a sugary smile for good measure.  
  
"Aw, and here I thought you were such a tough cookie," she retorted, giving him a matching smile.  
  
"Enough," the Official's imperious tone brooked no argument. "You two want to trade bakery bon mots, do it on your own nickel. Some of us are here to *work*."  
  
Bobby pulled at his collar and shuffled his feet, "Ah yes, sir, Agent Robert Hobbes ready for duty, sir. Have I mentioned recently what an honor I consider it to be back at the Department of Fish & Game? I mean, the Bureau of Weights and Measures just wasn't a prestigious enough organization to do your leadership justice, in my humble opinion, and the cases were ... well, to be frank, sir, they were a bit of a bore."  
  
"Well, then prepared to be bored yet again, Agent Hobbes, because thanks to your partner's antics, we've got some payback due at the BWM."  
  
"What?" The exclamation came out in triplicate as the three agents squawked in surprise.  
  
Eberts smoothly slid up closer to his boss's right-hand side. "Apparently the bill has come due on the havoc wreaked on public and private property as a direct consequence of Darien's recent bout with Stage 5 madness. What with the destruction of an entire picnic area in Balboa Park, the damages assessed for mental pain and suffering for an entire family resulting from the disruption of a funeral, not to mention the replacement cost for one gold Rolex that appears to have been taken from the corpse at said funeral ...." the Agency's resident bean-counter looked up and cocked an eyebrow at Darien, who proffered his wrist with its leather-strapped watch as tacit proof of his innocence. Hobbes, meanwhile, surreptitiously pulled his jacket cuff down over his own wrist. "Hmm, yes, I see," the milquetoast mused.  
  
"Suffice it to say, people," the 'Fish cut in, "that the bill due to the BWM is more than our current sponsor is willing to fund. Therefore, in order to solve this little budgetary crisis, we have agreed to complete one more case for the BWM as remuneration."  
  
"So what is it?" Monroe, as usual, cut straight to the chase.  
  
"It seems," Eberts picked up the narrative thread without batting an eyelash, "that there have been a number of complaints about the inaccurate weighing of produce items at small, independent, minority-owned shops around the city ...."  
  
"What?" Darien cut in. "You mean some housewife complains about her plums being light from the corner bodega and we've got to put three trained agents on the case? Uh uh, no way."  
  
The Official puffed up like a peacock displaying his feathers, "Agent Fawkes, the certification of the accuracy of the scales in our local marketplaces is a vital part of the free-trade policy that has made this nation great."  
  
"Yeah, well, I think it's a stupid case and I'm not going work on it." Darien slid back in his chair and crossed his arms like a petulant five- year old.  
  
"What?" His boss's voice lowered to a dangerous whisper, echoed only by a hushed, "uh oh," from the Fat Man's toady.  
  
"You heard me. It's stupid and I ain't gonna do it. When I transferred back from the FBI, I told you, I wasn't going to work on any cases that I thought were stupid and this one here," Darien pointed a finger and stabbed the top of the 'Fish's desk to emphasize his point, "this is *stupid*. 'Sides, I got some great female wrestlin' videos I been meaning to check out ...."  
  
"Aha, I see. Well, perhaps you might want to check with your fellow agents regarding their feelings about having to clean up your mess while you sit at home and watch scantily clad women grapple with each other," the 'Fish suggested as he leaned back in his chair, a Cheshire smile firmly in place.  
  
Darien turned his head to his left -- the stare he got from Monroe could have cut diamonds. Then he turned his head to his right -- the look on Hobbes' face was so intense, he could have *made* diamonds. Darien gave a little shiver, decided a lifetime of peaceful sleep was worth a few days of boring work, and cleared his throat. "Ah, yah, I, ah, think I could, ah leave those videos on hold a while longer."  
  
Bobby slapped Darien on the back. "Good answer there, partner."  
  
"Yeah, way to be a team player, Fawkes," Monroe tossed out.  
  
"Alright, why don't you two work out the details," Darien suggested to the senior agents. "Then Bobby, you can fill me in later when you meet me in the Keep. Right now it's time for my 50,000 mile check-up."  
  
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Darien was sitting in the administering chair when Bobby entered the Keeper's lab. As usual, he was whining, "Do we really have to keep doing these check-ups *every* week, Keep?"  
  
"Darien, you may no longer need counteragent to flush the Quicksilver toxins from your bloodstream but the fact remains that Quicksilver *is* an artificial substance saturating your system and the gland is a transgenic implant in your brain." Without skipping a beat in her scientific litany, Claire automatically slipped the blood pressure cuff on Darien's arm, pumped it up, deflated it and noted his pressure on her clipboard. Then she began flicking her pen light in his eyes. "There's no telling what effect any of this is going to have on your system long-term. And I'm still concerned about your eyesight."  
  
"Alright, enough already!" Darien jumped from the chair. "This little lab rat's out of here." He slipped his jacket on and headed for the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. "You can tell the Fat Man I'm heading home. I'm sure we can start the great weigh-in on Monday."  
  
The doors swished shut and Claire turned to Hobbes for an explanation. "What's set him off?"  
  
"Oh, nothing. He's been moping ever since we got breakfast at the bakery this morning," he replied innocently."I'm telling you, I gain another 5 pounds every time Fawkes gets the yen to sit and mope."  
  
"Oh, no, not Lola again? For God's sake why don't you just tell him to go talk to her?"  
  
"Oh, gee ya think? C'mon, Claire, you know better than that -- that's *all* I been telling him for almost a month now but you know Fawkes. When he don't wanna listen, you can talk till you're blue in the face. And our Sir Galahad has got himself all convinced that he's doing the noble thing by honoring her wishes for him to stay away from her."  
  
"Oh, she didn't really mean that. She was just angry and confused. I mean, it's not every day a girl gets arrested by a secret government agency and finds out the man she's just gotten involved with isn't who he said he was. But she's had plenty of time to cool down now ...."  
  
"Listen, sister, you're preaching to the choir. I mean, I know that and you know that, but, Fawkes, he don't wanna know that. He's got himself all convinced that she hates him and nothing I've said has been able to penetrate that thick skull of his ... must be all that hair." Hobbes rubbed his own hairless head and quirked his eyebrows at Claire.  
  
The blonde scientist sighed and leaned back against the administering chair. "Well, we've got to do something. You know the kind of trouble he gets into when he gets depressed."  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm fresh outta ideas." Bobby casually propped himself up with one hand on the chair, sliding his arm conveniently close to Claire's waist. "What would you suggest there, Keepie?"  
  
"I don't know but leaving him alone to stew in his own juices seems like a bad idea. Why don't you take him out for a guys' night on the town?"  
  
"Ah, I see, kinda the 'ole 'the best way to forget a girl is to find another girl' thing?"  
  
"Precisely -- that's the spirit!" She patted Hobbes on the shoulder for emphasis.  
  
"Problem with that, Claire," he leaned in and lowered his voice, "is that if the first girl is the *right* girl, all the other chicks in the world ain't gonna make you forget her." And in one swift movement he winked at her, clicked his tongue, hitched his pants and turned on his heel, leaving her alone in the Keep to ponder his last words.  
  
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Darien's phone was already on the third ring as he stepped through the door. Dropping his junk mail and a six-pack of his favorite Sierra Falls- brand brew on the counter, he reached over and grabbed the phone. "Fawkes," he stated.  
  
"Hey partner, what's up," Bobby asked.  
  
"Hobbes, man, I left you not 45 minutes ago. What could possibly happen in that amount of time?"  
  
"With *you*?" Hobbes gave a wry laugh. "Anything."  
  
"Hehe, painful, but true," Darien grimaced and shook his head. "What up, buddy?"  
  
"Just wondering what you had planned for this weekend," Hobbes asked in his best nonchalant tone.  
  
"Oh you know, just the usual Roman orgy," Darien rolled his eyes and wagged his head back and forth as he enumerated, "Naked slave girls, dwarves, circus animals ...."  
  
"Aha, I see, which means sitting inside watching TV and reading those Cliff Notes of yours the whole time."  
  
"No, no, it doesn't. As a matter of fact I'm planning on shooting some hoops Sunday morning ...."  
  
Hobbes snorted. "Oh, that's great, you're a real playboy, ain'tcha?"  
  
"And what would *you* suggest there, Mr. Hefner?"  
  
"You, me, hitting the town, tonight."  
  
Darien sighed, rubbed the heel of his palm against an eye, "Ya know what, Bobby? I'm just not up to it tonight, but hey, maybe tomorrow night ..."  
  
"Yeah, right, Fawkes, tomorrow ...."  
  
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Darien's doorbell rang about 7:30 p.m., right in the middle of his favorite Buffy repeat. He was tempted not to answer it, particularly since it was right when Spike gets the chip implanted in his brain, but the ringing had that persistent tone he had come to know oh so well. Looking through the peephole he confirmed his suspicions.  
  
"Hobbes, man, I thought we agreed we were gonna do this *tomorrow* night," he whined as he opened the door.  
  
"Now is that any way to greet your partner, partner?" Hobbes slid past Darien and went straight to the kitchen counter where he deposited a six- pack and what looked to be enough Chinese take-out to feed an army. "Especially when he comes bearing sustenance?"  
  
Darien held up his already open beer in a toast. "Looks like great minds think alike there, bro."  
  
"What, Fawkes, you drinking alone?"  
  
"Hey, it's kinda hard not to when all you ever are is alone."  
  
"Oh, I get it now, you're not drinking that beer, you're just crying into it," Hobbes observed as he cracked himself a brew and automatically scanned Darien's apartment. Sure enough, there were three already-empty bottles on the coffee table and not a dinner plate in sight. Picking up the bag of Chinese, he steered the taller man over to the couch and playfully knocked him down onto it. Then he shoved a container and a pair of chopsticks at Darien. "C'mon eat up, I got your favorite, Firecracker Beef."  
  
"Well, I am kinda hungy," Darien said as he greedily reached out and snatched the container from Hobbes.  
  
"I swear to God, kid, you are an eating *machine*," Hobbes shook his head as Darien began shoveling food into his mouth with gusto. "Course you could do with putting some meat on them scrawny bones of yours, you know? Might stop the mooks from knocking you on your ass all the time. I mean that in itself is a reason for you to go and see Lola. She works in a bakery, maybe she could fatten you up a bit ...."  
  
Darien stopped chewing and shoved his chopsticks upright into his container. "Aw man, Hobbes, we are *not* gonna have this conversation again, are we?"  
  
"Yes, yes, we are. You know, Fawkes, I can count the number of times I've seen you drunk on one hand and three of those times were in the last month. Tonight ...."  
  
"Hobbes, man, I am *not* drunk ...."  
  
"You had four beers by yourself -- that qualifies," Hobbes continued to tick off with his fingers. "*Tonight*, the night you came to your senses and returned to the Agency ...."  
  
"Hey, that doesn't count. That was necessary to get the icky taste of being 'officialed' out of my mouth. 'Sides, as I recall, you and Claire were pretty well in your cups there too that night. So you never did tell me, did you get the good doctor to give you a checkup when you drove her home? Huh?" Darien grinned goofily and began nudging Hobbes in the middle with his elbow.  
  
Hobbes grimaced at Darien and moved to the chair. "Bobby Hobbes would never kiss and tell on a lady. And stop trying to change the subject. Now, as I was sayin', tonight ..." up came a finger, "two weeks ago ..." up popped another finger, "and two weeks before that when Lola stormed out of the Agency," a third and final finger came up. "Now I've asked you before, but *this time* I want an answer, Fawkes: What is it about this girl that is so different?"  
  
Darien put the food container down, shook his head, took another swig of his beer. "I don't know. Maybe it's *me* that's different. When I left the Agency and went to the FBI, it occurred to me that I'd lost *everyone*. I had no one of my own, no one who cared about me enough to stick with me ...."  
  
"You know, *I* care about you, partner and I'd stick with you no matter what ...."  
  
"No offense, Hobbes, but that's not the kind of caring I'm talking about here. It's like Simon Cole, you know. I just keep going back to him and Ivy Peterson."  
  
Bobby nodded at the mention of the Agency's first invisible man whose memories had invaded his partner's brain courtesy of the Quicksilver gland they'd shared. Ivy Peterson had been Cole's lover and seeing her had been one of the first things Simon had done when he'd been 'resurrected' in Fawkes' body.  
  
Darien got up from the couch and began pacing around the living room. "I mean, I had him in my *head*, Hobbes. And maybe I don't have all his memories anymore, maybe they were all flushed away when Claire gave me that anti-peptide shot or whatever it was, but I know one thing: He *loved* her, really loved her. Enough to come back for her. Enough to risk everything to make the world a better place for her. Do you know what that's like, Bobby?" Darien stopped pacing in front of the window, staring out at the soft velvet blue of the evening sky, his face half in shadow. "'Cuz I don't. I don't think I've ever loved anyone that much. But I want to, and I think maybe Lola's the kind of girl I could have done that with -- if I hadn't screwed it up like I did ... like I always do."  
  
Hobbes got up quietly, crossed the room and gently pulled on the younger man's arm until they were facing each other. "Yeah, kid, I do know what it's like. Which is why I'm telling you now, go and see that girl. Don't make the same mistake I did with Viv," Bobby cleared his throat as he bit off his ex-wife's name. "I left it too long and by the time I was ready to tell her how I felt about her, she had given up on me for another man. If you think there's even the slightest chance you could have something with this girl, don't wait, go see her." Hobbes reached up, put a hand lightly on the back of his partner's neck and looked directly into his eyes. "Darien," he said softly, "I mean it. If you never take another piece of advice from me, take this one: Go see Lola. Ask her to forgive you."  
  
Darien shook free of the older man's comforting hands. "I can't, Bobby, I ... just can't."  
  
"Why the hell not?" Hobbes roared as his frustration finally got the better of him.  
  
Darien hung his head and returned to the sofa, grabbing his beer again like a security blanket. "'Cuz what do I do if she says 'no'?"  
  
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Hobbes breathed in a lungful of not-so-fresh air as he exited the industrial-looking apartment building. Man, Fawkes definitely did not live in the better section of town. Bobby thought contentedly of his own little place by the marina and wondered what the kid liked so much about this joint. Maybe he felt at home living among the riffraff that made this section of the city their own, but couldn't he see that he didn't belong with them anymore? Hobbes shook his head. His partner had changed so much from the antisocial, self-centered prick he'd been when they'd first met. Yeah, he was still more often than not a whiney brat, but he'd found a better way of life and he'd decided -- chosen, mind you, not been forced into it -- to stay on the straight and narrow and work to make the world a better place. Why Darien couldn't just let himself be happy was beyond Bobby; God knew the kid deserved a little bit of happiness.  
  
Well, it was 10:43, Fawkes was sleeping it off upstairs, the night was young and he had two more stops to make. Hobbes began whistling as he scanned the area, then confidently made his way to the van. 'If Mohammed won't go to the mountain,' he thought, 'then I'm just gonna have to make the mountain come to Mohammed.'  
  
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It was just under an hour and a quarter later when Hobbes pulled his van up in front of the bakery, having spent a little longer at The Agency than he'd planned. He should have paid more attention to Eberts when the Fat Man had sentenced him to purgatory in the Agency's file room to atone for the sin of complaining. Then again, he hadn't expected the little nerd's filing system would someday be "need to know" information.  
  
With a manila folder tucked tightly under his arm, Hobbes hopped out of the van and inspected the bakery window. The lights in the front of the shop were off and a sign on the door proclaimed, "Closed," but it was a Friday night and he suspected that the rear of the shop was a different story. Rounding the corner briskly, Hobbes located the alley that backed onto Lola's store, automatically scanning his surroundings the whole time. Sure enough he could see a light shining through the window of the shop's rear entrance.  
  
The sounds of a radio blaring Sheryl Crow's "My Favorite Mistake" and an extremely off-key female voice enthusiastically parroting the lyrics greeted Bobby's ears as he came down the dingy passageway. He paused to knock on the back door, decided whoever was inside would never hear him over the musical caterwauling, and tried the knob. The door was locked, but with a little strategic jiggling, it opened easily. 'Definitely *not* a secure environment,' was Hobbes' silent professional assessment.  
  
The back room was some sort of storeroom or pantry, with immense sacks of flour, sugar and other sundry baking ingredients lined up along the walls. To his immediate right was the shiny stainless door of a refrigerated storeroom, where he supposed the more perishable items were kept. The light -- and the noise -- however, was coming from the room directly in front of him.  
  
Passing through the storeroom, he entered the brightly lit space only to be greeted by the sight of Lola standing at a long counter with her back to him and singing along with the radio at the top of her lungs. He watched for a moment as the petite brunette stirred a large bowl of what appeared to be thick yellow jam, mindlessly bopping up and down on her little legs and shaking her bandana-covered head to the rhythm of the music.  
  
"Ah, you need a better lock on that door," he shouted out by way of announcing his arrival.  
  
Lola let out a yelp and jumped back from the counter. Whirling on him, she threw her hands to her chest. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," she exclaimed, "what the hell are you trying to do? Give me a frickin' heart attack?" Then her head snapped back and she froze in recognition. "Oh, it's *you*."  
  
"Hey, you're lucky it's just me and not some punk trying to clean out your cash register," he answered, still yelling over the radio. "Could we maybe turn that down some, do you think?"  
  
Her deep blue eyes never leaving his cognac-colored ones, she reached over to the counter behind her and jabbed at the radio's power switch. "Somehow, Agent Hobbes, I do not associate seeing you with being lucky," she said into the sudden silence. "Let's see, you've already handcuffed and detained me against my will once, what's it gonna be this time? I mean, how do you follow up wrongful arrest? Got a new Taser you want to try out?" Lola screwed her pretty face into a sneer and practically spat at him. "And where's the lovely Agent Monroe? After all, it wouldn't be a party without her playing hostess in that padded cell, now would it?"  
  
"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, sister," Bobby held his hands out in front of him. "I come in peace."  
  
Lola snorted. "What do you want, Agent Hobbes?" The chill in her tone could have solved the global warming crisis.  
  
"Just to talk to you. You know, have a little friendly chit-chat ...," Bobby smiled hopefully at her.  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Oh you know, just shootin' the breeze about how you're doin', how I'm doin', how Fawkes is doin' ...."  
  
"No." She crossed her arms and resolved her lips into a thin, downward facing line.  
  
Bobby waited a minute for her to elaborate and when she didn't, he quirked his eyes at her and shrugged. "What? That's it? Just 'no'? No 'maybe', no 'possibly', no 'what's going on with him that we need to talk about'? Just 'no'?"  
  
"Yes." Lola nodded a brief affirmation.  
  
"Good, good, that's what I like to hear. Accentuate the positive, Bobby Hobbes always says, give the guy the benefit of the doubt," Hobbes enthused, then shook his head. "OK, wait a minute, I'm confused. Was that 'yes' you want to know what I came to tell you or 'yes' you meant just 'no' before?"  
  
"Tell me something, Agent Hobbes. Are conversations with you always this convoluted?"  
  
"Ah, uhm, yeah, I think so. I mean, that's a good thing, right?"  
  
"No, it's not a good thing, at least not from where I'm standing anyway," Lola sighed, pulled the bandana from her head and ran a hand through her dark, chin-length hair. "Look, it's late and I'm tired. Why don't you just go home?"  
  
"Because you need to know some things about Fawkes and I came here to make sure you got the intell," Bobby pointed to the file in his hands. "So unless you're planning on physically moving me, you'd best resign yourself to hearing me out." Planting his feet, he stood ramrod straight transforming himself into the proverbial immovable object.  
  
"Fine," Lola stated flatly. "You want to talk, talk. But the conversation's going to be a little one-sided since I have absolutely nothing to say in regards to Mr. Ray Miller."  
  
"Darien Fawkes," he corrected, "Ray Miller was the alias he was using when he was travelling with you, but his real name is Darien Fawkes."  
  
"Fawkes, Miller, *whatever*," she said, tying the bandana back on her head. "I still have no intention of discussing him with you or anyone else for that matter." Lola turned away from Bobby and gave the bowl a few annoyed stirs, a generous dollop of the yellow stuff plopping out. She snatched up a towel and began wiping up the space on the spot.  
  
Hobbes came over and stood next to her, placing the file he'd brought on the counter. "Here," he said. "That's Fawkes' life ... or at least the unclassified parts of it. I thought maybe you could read it and see that he was telling you the truth .... "  
  
She snorted and gave a final swipe at the counter with her towel. "Frankly, Agent Hobbes, I don't think your friend would know the truth if it jumped up and bit him in the ass," she retorted.  
  
It was Hobbes turn to snort, only his was bemused. This chick was a pistol of the same caliber as his sarcastic partner. If she and Fawkes didn't quip each other to death, they just might have something. "Look," he started, "I know you think he lied to you, but the fact of the matter is that most of what he told you is fact, documented right in this file right here." He tapped his index finger on the file on the counter.  
  
Lola ignored him and crossed the room to a refrigerated case, where she pulled something out and then returned to the counter. The item she carried was round and creamy white with a brown grainy base. One sweet little crack split it right in the middle of the top. Hobbes' mouth began to water as she started spooning the thick yellow confection from the bowl over it, effectively hiding the crack.  
  
"Oh man, that's not ..."  
  
"Cheesecake, yes."  
  
"With the ..."  
  
"Pineapple on top, yup, uh huh," she nodded matter-of-factly, then finished up the topping and began cutting the cake into neat triangular servings.  
  
Hobbes stared at the cake. "An honest-to-God, real, New York cheesecake?" he whispered reverently.  
  
Lola stopped her automatic working motions at the tone of longing in his voice. For the first time she really looked at him and what she saw caused her to smile widely. "Agent Hobbes, would you like a slice of cheesecake?" Before he could answer, she'd put one on a nearby paper plate and was handing it to him with a plastic fork.  
  
"Oh, no, hey, look, please, I wouldn't want you to go and ruin your cake just for me ...." Bobby eagerly took the proffered cake and slid the fork into it and then into his mouth.  
  
"It's OK. That one is going to be sold by the slice and believe it or not, they actually go faster if there's one already missing. I guess nobody likes to be the first taster." She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "Now go ahead and eat up. I guarantee one taste and you'll be right back at Lindy's on 42nd St."  
  
"Oh. My. God. Back on 42nd St.?" Bobby waved his hands ecstatically then went back to shoveling cake into his mouth. "Sister, let me tell you, I'm in heaven."  
  
Lola laughed. "It's the rum I put in the pineapple topping. Gives it a little extra kick."  
  
"Oh, sweetheart, listen, if I didn't know Fawkes was into you, I'd be asking you to marry me right now on the basis of this cake alone." Bobby scooped up the last bit of cake, swallowed it whole and smacked his lips. "That was too good."  
  
"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Now if you'll excuse me, Agent Hobbes, I have some pastries to finish before I can start closing the day's books so I can go home. I trust you can show yourself out." She put the cheesecake back into the refrigerator, then turned to exit the room, leaving the folder Hobbes had brought on the counter next to him.  
  
"Hey, wait, you forgot Fawkes' folder," he called after her, grabbing the file and following her to the doorway.  
  
"Really, Agent Hobbes, I don't see that there's anything in that folder that can tell me something I don't already know. Ray ... Darien ... Fawkes ... whatever your friend's name is today is a thief and a liar and that's all I really have to know, now isn't it?"  
  
"No, it's not. What you need to know about Fawkes I can't tell you in one night and besides, you should learn it firsthand yourself anyway. Suffice it to say that in his own way, Fawkes was incredibly honest with you. Probably more honest than I would have been in his position. But that's Fawkes -- he always lets his heart get in the way of his head. I've seen him do it time and time again. Like when he took a bullet for a little girl. Or when he risked his own life to save mine. Let me tell you something, the man you know as Ray Miller is a real American hero."  
  
"That's all very noble, but let me tell you what I know of him. For three days we were traveling together. Three days, that's all we had and I knew the risks I was taking. But like I told him in the car on the way home, I was prepared to accept the consequences of my actions. I was never asking him for more than he was willing to give," she stopped in mid-stream, gulped a deep breath, wiped her hands on her apron before continuing more slowly. "But goddammit, he should have been willing to at least give me his real name. That's not too much to ask for, is it?"  
  
"No, no, it's not. And if I know Fawkes, he wanted to tell you. He just couldn't figure out how to do that and stick within the security limits of our job. As usual, my partner was trying to do the right thing by everybody and only wound up screwing himself worse," Hobbes shook his head and gave a dry snort, "But he never lied to you about the essence of who he was, that file will confirm that. The thieving, the prison stays, the dead mother, the murdered brother, the loss, the pain. It's all in there, all true. In the end, isn't that more important than whatever name he gave you?"  
  
"I see, and if he's this bastion of honesty you'd have me believe he is, then why isn't he here instead of you?"  
  
"Because you told him to stay away from you and in his own misguided way the kid is trying to be a gentleman by honoring that request."  
  
"So he sent you as his second, eh, Cyrano?"  
  
"Who?" Hobbes looked confused for a moment then the light of understanding dawned. "Oh, no, no. He has no idea that I'm here. In fact, if he ever found out, he'd feed me such a rash of shit ...."  
  
"Well, you're a very good friend to him."  
  
"Lady, we're more than friends. We're *partners*. And partners do for each other. This here, me and you," Hobbes pointed at himself and Lola, "This is no favor on my part. This is payback. A while ago there was someone I needed to talk to desperately and she wouldn't see me, so he went to her and pleaded my case for me. Now it's my turn to do the same."  
  
"You must have loved her very much."  
  
"Yes, I did," Hobbes pictured Viv standing on that ottoman having her wedding dress fitted as he tried to tell her one last time how he felt about her. "Still do as a matter of fact. Guess I always will."  
  
"She left you then."  
  
"Yeah, married some other guy, but hey, she's happy, so I'm happy."  
  
"Not exactly a good example to use to help your friend's case with me, now is it?"  
  
"Hey, I had years to screw up that relationship. Darien deserves the same at least."  
  
"Well, Agent Hobbes," Lola laughed ruefully, "You're nothing if not eloquent."  
  
Hobbes took the file and pressed it firmly in her hand. "Listen, just take the file, read it and make your own decision. You'll see he wasn't lying to you about himself, just his name." And before she could hand it back, he left.  
  
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TBC 


	2. Part 2

PART 2  
  
Some dude named Eric Hoffner once wrote, "Our greatest weariness comes from work not done." Well, I ain't so sure 'bout that. 'Cuz I've been damn well weary ever since joining the Agency and God knows, it ain't from *not* working. Hell, when you go to work for the Fat Man, the word 'weekend' goes right out of your vocabulary.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Darien groaned and pulled the blanket up closer to his chin, slapping repeatedly at his clock radio to stop it from ringing. Only the ringing persisted and his hand just hit the coffee table instead. With one last swipe at the non-existent alarm, he knocked himself off the couch and onto the floor. He sat up, shook his head, then grabbed the phone. "Fawkes," he muttered, rubbing his backside.  
  
"Rise and shine, partner," Hobbes chirruped into the phone.  
  
"It's Saturday," Darien stated, "*morning*."  
  
"Ooooh, sounds like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the couch."  
  
"You mean bed. The expression is wrong side of the bed," Darien corrected, his hangover spicing his tone with readily apparent grumpiness.  
  
"I know," Hobbes explained, "But then again, I was the one who tucked you in last night there, sleeping beauty."  
  
"Oh, yeah, you did, didn't you?" Darien scratched his chin and squinted his eyes pensively. "I guess I had a little too much liquid libation, huh?"  
  
"You could say that, yeah. Now if you're done with your little fit of moping, we've got bodegas to inspect and scales to weigh."  
  
"But it's the *weekend*, Hobbesy," Darien whined.  
  
"Oh, what and you've got something better to do?"  
  
"Hmmm, you've got a point there."  
  
"Of course I've got a point. Bobby Hobbes always has a point. Now hurry up, take a couple of aspirin and jump in the shower. I'll pick you up in 45. And don't be late. Monroe's probably already up and halfway through her share of the stores."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------  
  
The van was parked expectantly out front as Darien exited his building with his sunglasses -- the only souvenir of his brief FBI tenure he'd chosen to keep -- firmly in place. Jumping into the passenger seat, he grunted a greeting to his partner, then slid down in his seat as Hobbes nosed out into traffic.  
  
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Lazarus, all risen from the dead. You know, green is *so* not your color," Bobby observed.  
  
"Hahaha. What? The hangover isn't punishment enough, I've got to listen to your jokes all day?" The van made a sharp right turn and Darien lunged out the window in anticipation of emptying his stomach.  
  
"You sure you're OK there? 'Cuz I'll pull over if I have to. Jeez, even your hair looks hungover ...."  
  
"What?" Darien asked nervously, concern over the state of his coif taking precedence over his stomach. Checking his reflection in the side-view mirror, he pulled at his unruly locks trying to make each of them stand more fully at attention. "Oh, oh, no. I'll be fine once the boat stops rockin'," he said, pulling his head back inside the van.  
  
"That's good. Listen, the first shop on our list is almost right next to ChezLo's neighborhood," Hobbes smiled at Darien and raised his eyebrows hopefully. "What's say we go and get us some nice gooey cheese Danish for breakfast, huh?"  
  
Darien threw his head out the window again. "Hobbes, you trying to kill me or something? I don't feel bad enough, you wanna shove Danish down my throat? Can we just skip the food and the chitchat and get on with the job for once?"  
  
"Fine, you don't wanna eat, don't eat. But you could try just going in there and talking to her ...."  
  
"For the love of God, Hobbes, can we please stop beating this horse? She told me to stay away, so I'm staying away. End of story."  
  
"Hey, you never know. Maybe something's happened to make her change her mind ...."  
  
Darien stared pointedly at Hobbes, his voice going steely soft. "What could possibly have happened that would make her change her mind, Hobbes?"  
  
"Oh, ah, nothing," Hobbes prevaricated. "I'm just saying, you never know, you know? But hey, if you wanna be a pessimist there, gloomy Gus, go right ahead, be my guest. I can get a buttered roll at that first bodega, you know."  
  
"Good, then let's get this show on the road so I can go home and die in peace."  
  
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The first store was a typical corner bodega, offering up an assortment of sundry canned goods and household products all targeted to the Hispanic immigrant population. When Hobbes and Darien informed the owner of the purpose of their visit, he escorted them to the back where there was a small deli counter next to a tiny produce area. Bins of South American plantains, yucca and batatas shared the limited floor space with more local fare like onions, strawberries and grapes.  
  
Using the specially calibrated weights Eberts had supplied them, Darien and Hobbes proceeded to check the scales in the produce section, then at the register, and not one was out of whack. Inside of 25 minutes, they'd certified the store's scales and Hobbes was at the deli counter getting his roll and coffee.  
  
While Hobbes was ordering, Darien wandered around the little store checking out packages of Bimbo-brand snack cakes, Maizena corn starch and Export soda crackers. The owner's wife was manning the register, having a quick conversation in what he assumed was her native tongue with another man, dressed in a dirty denim shirt, jeans, boots and with a bandana tied around his neck. They were speaking quickly and not all of it was straight Spanish, but Darien managed to pick out the words, "Tres Gatos Negros," when the man threw some money on the counter. At that the woman pulled a pack of cigarettes, not from the main cigarette display above the register, but rather from somewhere under the counter. Darien didn't have much time to wonder about it though, since the man left as Hobbes came up and paid for his breakfast.  
  
"You ready to roll there, partner?" Bobby asked.  
  
Darien looked after the man who'd just left and stuck his hands in his pockets with a little shrug. "Ah, yeah, sure. I guess so."  
  
The next three stores went off without a hitch, just like the first. But in all three, when Darien heard the phrase, "Tres Gatos Negros," a pack of cigarettes would magically appear from under the counter rather than from the regular display.  
  
At the fifth bodega, Darien's curiosity got the better of him and when he heard someone ask for the cigarettes, he followed the man out of the shop, leaving Hobbes inside. He jogged up to the man, who had stopped just outside the store to light a cigarette, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Hey, man, can I grab a butt there?"  
  
The man, just about Hobbes' height but much darker in skin tone and with a full head of thick black hair, turned to Darien. He was dressed in stained jeans and a natural colored denim workshirt with the name, Jesus, embroidered on the right shoulder just under the "Plains View Farms" logo.  
  
"I'm sorry, senor, but I do not think you will like these cigarettes," Jesus replied.  
  
"Oh no, I'm sure it'll be fine," Darien said, then added pointing back to the store. "I'd, ah, buy a pack myself but my partner doesn't like me smoking on the job ...."  
  
Jesus took the pack out of his shirt pocket and held it out to Darien. It was bright red with an illustration of three screeching black cats on the front. The silver foil on the pack had been ripped where Jesus had opened it but otherwise the pack was intact. "Really, these cigarettes are not the same as your American brands. They are much stronger, unfiltered. I do not think you will like them."  
  
Darien took the pack from Jesus, pulled out a cigarette and popped it behind his ear. "No problem, I'm sure it will be fine. Thanks, homey."  
  
Jesus took the pack back that Darien handed him and shrugged. "De nada. Enjoy." Then he turned, climbed into a produce delivery truck and drove away.  
  
Darien pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and stood looking at it. He was rolling it between his fingers when Hobbes emerged.  
  
"Fawkes, Fawkes, what are you doing? You don't have enough bad habits already, you gotta start adding new ones?"  
  
"Relax, Mom, I ain't smokin' it. There's something weird going on with these cigarettes here ...."  
  
"Weird? How weird?"  
  
"Well, for one thing, only immigrants seem to buy them."  
  
"That's because they're a South American brand, Fawkes. See, says so right here," Hobbes pointed to the tip of the cigarette wrapper, 'Tres Gatos Negros.' They're from like Santa Ruego or Bolivia or somewhere like that. Ain't nobody gonna smoke these rather than good 'ole American Marlboro unless they were raised on 'em."  
  
"OK, fine," Darien continued, following Hobbes over to the van. "Then how come the pack this one came from didn't have a tax stamp?"  
  
"What, no, Fawkes, that's not right. All cigarette packs have tax seals, just like all booze bottles. Can't sell 'em without no tax seal."  
  
"That would be my point, Hobbes. And why do they keep these under the counter, when all the other brands are kept in the display *above* the counter?" Darien pulled on his door and climbed into the van.  
  
Bobby stopped and looked at his partner through the open driver-side window. "Hmmm, that's a good question."  
  
"That's what I'm saying."  
  
"Yeah, well, don't let this go to your head there, Grasshopper," Hobbes started the van. "I'm still the senior agent on the case."  
  
Darien laughed and strapped himself in. "That's right, with an emphasis on the *senior*."  
  
"Watch it, gland boy," Hobbes warned, nosing the van out into traffic. "Bobby Hobbes still has enough life left in these old bones to kick your butt around the block and back again, my friend. And don't be lighting that thing up in Golda. She is a smoke-free environment."  
  
"I told you, Hobbes, I am *not* smoking it ...."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------  
  
As they pulled up to the next bodega on the list, La Corazon Blanca Market, Darien put his hand on Hobbes' arm. "Listen, you go in first, get the counter person in the back and start checking the scales. I'm gonna come in after you and see if I can't get some of those cigarette packs, OK?"  
  
"Oh, gonna do a little transparent reconnaissance, are we?" Hobbes climbed out of the van.  
  
"Well, you know what they say, use it or lose it ...." Darien watched as Hobbes went into the store. After a few minutes, he let the quicksilver flow over his form and invisibly left the van. Inside the store, he could hear Hobbes in the back spewing a stream-of-consciousness monologue about the various infractions he'd supposedly found with the store's scales. Once again relying on skills honed through years of breaking and entering, Darien silently padded behind the register and looked under the counter. Sure enough, the shelf was packed with carton upon carton of "Tres Gatos Negros." Pulling a few packs from various cartons, he quicksilvered them, then left the shop and returned to the van and to sight.  
  
When Bobby emerged from the store, Darien showed him the packs he'd pilfered. "See, Hobbesy, I told you something was up with these things. Not one of them has a tax seal on it."  
  
Bobby took the proffered packages and examined them carefully, checking them from one end to the other. "This is not good," he mused, "not good at all. If they don't have any tax stamps, that means they didn't come through customs. And if they didn't come through customs, who knows where they could have come from ...."  
  
"Or what they got in 'em," Darien finished for his partner. "I'm thinking maybe there's a little bit more to 'Tres Gatos Negros' special blend of herbs than tobacco." Darien put his fingers together and held them to his mouth mimicking a joint.  
  
"Yeah, well, we better check in with Alex in case she's seen anything fishy in her stores." Hobbes pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Hey, Alex! Listen ... what? Uh, the sixth one, why? Oh, 10, huh," Hobbes rolled his eyeballs at Darien, "that's just great. It's good to know that you're that far ahead of us, yeah. But hey, listen, while you were power-weighing those scales, did you happen to notice anything funny going on at the registers? Oh you don't say? 'Tres Gatos Negros,' heh? Yah, we've got a bunch of packs here -- no tax stamps, right? Right. Ah hah, I see. Tell you what, we'll meet you at The Agency in the morning to synchronize our watches and then hit the clubs tomorrow night. Right. Yeah, don't worry, we'll finish up our share of the stores today," Hobbes rolled his eyes once again. "Won't leave any for you to have to pick up. Ah hah. Pleasure as always, Alex, bye bye." Hobbes flipped up his sunglasses and rubbed his temples.  
  
"So what she'd say?"  
  
"Oh you mean besides the fact that if we don't pull our weight she's going to cut off our balls with a dull spoon?" Hobbes pocketed his phone and replaced his sunglasses on his nose.  
  
Darien's face blanched. "Owie."  
  
"My sentiments exactly. Anyways, she noticed the cigarette thing where she is too. Apparently these things are at almost every bodega in town and none of them have tax seals. She's got a line on the guy who supposedly imports 'em -- name's Jorge Amarillo or something. She says he owns some social club but she's not sure which."  
  
"So, what now?"  
  
"Now? Now we finish checking the rest of the markets on our list so I can someday father a family. Tomorrow morning we meet Monroe at The Agency to figure out our plan of attack and tomorrow night ... Well, tomorrow night, my friend, we'll be livin' la vida loca at the salsa clubs lookin' for Mr. Amarillo."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------  
  
Darien was awake long before the alarm rang Sunday morning. Dreams about black cats with dull spoons chasing him into spider-encrusted corners had spoiled any chance of peaceful slumber. He showered, dressed in his favorite 'Barfly' T-shirt and orange jeans, topped it off with his tan jacket, and was out the door with enough time left over to catch a cup of coffee from the local deli. He was just coming out, his morning brew in one hand, when Hobbes pulled up in the van. Darien climbed into the passenger seat, set his Styrofoam cup on the dash and proceeded to strap himself in.  
  
Hobbes looked from his partner to the coffee cup and back again. "Oh, ah, I see you got your coffee there already."  
  
"Ah, yah," Darien replied as he took a careful sip of the steaming beverage. "Why?"  
  
"No reason really," Hobbes said offhandedly. "It's just that I thought maybe we could swing by the bakery on our way to the office and pick up breakfast there."  
  
"Swing by the ... on our way to the ...," Darien shook his head and motioned with his hand out the window. "What the hell are you talking about? The bakery's on the other side of town from The Agency."  
  
"Well, not the way I go," Hobbes tried to counter.  
  
"Not the way you go? What, what is this sudden fascination with going to the bakery? First yesterday, then today. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be fixated on that place."  
  
"Fixated? What do you mean fixated? Bobby Hobbes ain't fixated on nothing except a couple of hot-from-the-oven cinnamon buns and a nice cup of Colombian."  
  
Darien gave his partner the once over, taking in Bobby's spiffy new dark denim jeans and jacket paired with a deep burgundy form-fitting polo shirt. Darien looked down at his own attire, then back to Bobby again. "Yeah, well, that's *all* you better be fixated on ...."  
  
"Whoa there, Nellie," Hobbes lifted his sunglasses and turned to face his partner while somehow still managing to keep one eye on the road. "Is that the green-eyed monster I see emerging?"  
  
"No. I just want to make sure it's Lola's cinnamon buns you're interested in and not her ... errr, *buns*, if you catch my drift." Darien took another swig of coffee, spilled some on his shirt when Hobbes took a sharp left turn, then tried to wipe it up with his hand.  
  
"Oh I don't believe this," Bobby turned his head back to the road. "You're jealous of me trying to steal a girl you won't even talk to?" He knit his eyebrows and grimaced, then flipped his sunglasses back down. "I just want to get breakfast. Eberts goes in there all the time to buy those cookies he likes and you're not worried."  
  
"Yeah, but you're not Eberts."  
  
"Damn straight. And don't you forget it. Ain't a girl been born yet who could withstand the 'ole Bobby Hobbes charm when he chose to turn it on."  
  
"I bet Lola could."  
  
"Oh yeah, well maybe we'll just see about that."  
  
"Oh yeah, well maybe I'll just take Claire on another visit down to the docks ...." Darien cocked an eyebrow over his shoulder at his partner.  
  
"Yeah, right, like she'd go with you. You forget that last time she was completely insane, remember?"  
  
"Oh, so what? Now you're saying any girl would have to be crazy to go out with me?"  
  
Hobbes let out a slow, measured breath. "You know what, Fawkes? I'm not so hungry for breakfast anymore. Let's just go straight to The Agency and meet Monroe, huh?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Fine."  
  
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Fifteen minutes later, the two men entered the Harding Building. Hustling the younger agent down towards the Keep, Bobby urged, "Hurry up, would ya, Fawkes? I want to see if Claire's in before Monroe shows up ...."  
  
Almost immediately, Alex emerged from the elevator. "Speak of the Devil," Darien muttered. "Doesn't anybody at this frickin' Agency have a life?"  
  
"Look, Beavis and Butthead," Alex began as she stepped back into the elevator with her two counterparts, "nobody would like to be out spending a day at the beach more than me." She absent-mindedly adjusted one strap on the coral silk tank that accentuated the flawless bronze of her skin. "But we've got a job to do and the sooner we get it finished, the sooner we can get back to more important cases -- like stopping Chrysalis."  
  
Bobby nodded in agreement and punched the down button. "That's right, duty to your country knows no holidays, my friend."  
  
"I'm telling you, Hobbes, embroidered pillows are the way to go with those sayings of yours," Darien suggested, stepping from the elevator and hurrying to catch up with Bobby who was already halfway down the hallway to the Keep. "Hey, we could make gift sets with them and some of the Keeper's keychain crap!"  
  
"Some of my what?" asked Claire in her clipped British tones as the three agents entered the Keep.  
  
"Oh, no, et tu, Claire? Of all of us I thought you'd at least have a life." Darien shook his head in disappointment.  
  
"Actually, I do have a life. I just stopped in to pick up the videos I forgot here Friday. I'm having friends over for a movie marathon." Claire grinned and held up a stack of three Blockbuster video cases.  
  
Darien cocked his head sideways and read off the titles: "Steel Magnolias," "Fried Green Tomatoes," and "Terms of Endearment." "Sounds like a major chick fest to me," he grimaced.  
  
"These are all award winning films, I'll have you know. Just because they don't feature weapons of mass destruction, car chases or naked women, doesn't mean they're not good."  
  
Hobbes quirked his eyebrows at her and pursed his lips. "C'mon, Claire. Why don'tcha ditch the chicks and the tear-jerkers and come dancing with me instead? I'm gonna be hitting some salsa clubs this evening and I could use a partner who really knows how to mambo, if you know what I mean ...." With that Hobbes grabbed Claire's hands, pulled her into a light embrace and began cha-chaing around the room. Claire automatically fell in step with him, giggling as he began to twirl her. "See, that's what I'm talkin' about, you got the rhythm there, Keepie. So how's about cutting the rug with me tonight?"  
  
Claire stood, wobbling a little from all the twirling and holding onto Bobby's shoulder for support. When she looked over and saw Alex and Darien standing in the wings, however, she pulled away and resumed her normal clinical detachment. "No, Bobby, thank you, but I don't think that would be quite, ah, appropriate, under the circumstances."  
  
"Oh well, I guess it's you and me then, Alex," Hobbes said turning to face the tiny auburn-haired agent. Darien reached over and closed Claire's open mouth as Bobby swept the Agency's notorious lone wolf into his arms and dropped her into deep dip. Pulling her up again, Bobby exited the room with his arm around Alex, the two happily chitchatting about their dance strategy for the clubs that evening.  
  
"Bloody hell," Claire rounded on Darien. "It was for an *assignment*?"  
  
"Well, yah," Darien rolled his eyes at her. "What'd you think, it was for a *date*? I mean, everyone knows about that whole "no fishing" policy you and Bobby have."  
  
"You mean Bobby has," Claire corrected, gathering up her movies again. "I've never said any such thing."  
  
"Well then, why didn't you say yes when he asked you?"  
  
"It wasn't for a real date, it was for a case."  
  
"You didn't know that," Darien stepped up to Claire, wagging his finger like Perry Mason. "So are you saying you'd go out with him for real if he asked you?"  
  
"I didn't say that either." Claire flipped a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear.  
  
"So you wouldn't ...."  
  
"You know what, Darien?" she jerked her coat from the back of her desk chair. "This is not a conversation I'm going to have with you."  
  
Darien leaned his butt against her desk and crossed his arms and legs. "Yeah, well, you're right actually. It's a conversation you should have with Bobby."  
  
"Well, now," she narrowed her lovely grey eyes at him and pursed her lush lips into a quizzical pout. "You're hardly the person to be giving advice to the lovelorn, are you?"  
  
He grimaced at her and shook his hand as if he'd burned it. "Ouch. That was uncalled for. Man, there really is 'no such fury as a woman ....'"  
  
"Don't say it, Darien," Claire warned him, pulling her coat on. "I'm going home to enjoy my life and my friends. When you've got your own romantic house in order, then you can come and counsel me."  
  
Darien watched as Claire picked up her purse and left. She was right, of course. Who was he to be giving anybody romantic advice? Hell, he'd even screwed up his chance with that chick from the newsstand ... what was her name ... Rachel, maybe ... and all she'd wanted was a one-night stand. Nope, it looked like the only lasting relationship he was going to be able to have was with his own right hand. And that was only because it was permanently attached, he thought ruefully.  
  
Crossing the room, he put his hand in his pocket to grab his key card for the Keep and felt the cigarette packs he'd swiped the day before. Crap, he'd forgotten to tell Claire about them. He returned to her desk, put the packs on top of it and wrote her a note explaining that they suspected the cigarettes were somehow tied to a drug cartel and asking her to check them to see if they were laced with anything unusual. He wasn't sure what kind of test she could run for that, but Claire always seemed to know one for every occasion. Then he left the Keep and went in search of the other two agents to catch the scoop on the plan for that night.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------  
  
TBC 


	3. Part 3 PG13

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THIS VERSION OF CHAPTER 3 CARRIES A PG-13 RATING. THERE IS ANOTHER NC-17 VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER (POSTED IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THIS ONE), WHICH I FRANKLY THINK IS STRONGER IN TERMS OF WRITING AND INSIGHT. HOWEVER, IF YOU'RE UNDERAGE OR DON'T CARE TO INDULGE, PLEASE ENJOY THIS VERSION.  
  
There's an old Cuban ballad from the '30s that laments: "Lost are the dreams of my deluded youth/dreams I fulfilled with overwhelming passion." When I was younger, I was a thief. Now I always thought I was in it for the money, but the truth I've learned isn't quite that simple. I was in it for the thrill of the chase, the high of getting away with something I shouldn't have. Of course, the problem was that I didn't always get away with it, which is how I ended up with a gland in my head working for the Agency. But there are times, like tonight for instance, when I get that same shiver down my back and I can almost convince myself that I'm casing a joint and not just working a case. Now Hobbes would say there's a world of difference between the two as measured by that thin grey line he refuses to cross. But hey, for the excitement junkie in me, a fix is a fix, right? **************************************************************************** **********************************  
  
Darien surveyed himself in the full-length mirror next to his bed: tight black jeans, check. Form-fitting, black, button-down shirt, check. Chunky soled black shoes, check. Black leather jacket, check. He primped his hair. Oh yeah, he looked good. After having the style disparity between himself and his partner practically shoved in his face in the van this morning, he was out to prove he could hold his own in the fashion arena next to the always-so-nattily-attired Bobby Hobbes. And if there was one thing he did well, it was black. 'Sides, black was, after all, the color of choice for his former profession and he could feel in his bones that those thieving skills were going to come in handy before the evening was over.  
  
Grabbing his keys from off the kitchen counter, he whirled, gave himself one last head-to-toe check in his mirror and exited his apartment. Going down the stairs he passed Mrs. Madison, the old lady who lived on the floor below him. When she mentioned how nice he smelled, he groaned inwardly. Maybe he shouldn't have used so much of that cologne he'd found lurking in the back of his bathroom cabinet. He could just imagine 'ole bloodhound Bobby Hobbes sniffing around him for the rest of the evening and regaling them with tales of his olfactory exploits. Oh well, nothing he could do about it now. He shrugged, mostly to himself, gave Mrs. Madison a parting wave over his shoulder and exited the building.  
  
"Hey, Alex," he called out as he caught sight of the female five-star double checking the locks on all the doors of her black Corvette.  
  
"Dammit, Darien, why can't you live in a decent section of town like a normal person?" Monroe groused, "I'll be lucky if they leave me the floor mats when I get back." She left the car and came to stand in front of the building with Darien.  
  
Monroe was wearing a slinky red halter dress with a full skirt just made for twirling on the dance floor. Her hair was pulled up into a French twist with the ends peeking out at the top for a jaunty fringe. Delicate red beaded earrings accentuated the curve of her slender neck and on her feet were tiny, ankle-strap sandals with stiletto heels. If not for the smirk on her face, Darien thought, she'd be a knockout. "Hey, Alex, nice threads," he complimented. "You look like a million bucks."  
  
Alex's face went blank at the sudden compliment. She knit her brows together and stuttered out, "Why thank you, Darien. You look nice too." Then a small smile tugged at her lips and for a moment she *was* a knockout. "So who dressed you?" She full out grinned at him and he began to think that maybe Hobbes' "No Fishing" policy was a very good one to have indeed.  
  
"Well, thank you, Ms. Versace," he laughed, throwing a friendly arm around her shoulder. After all, it wouldn't hurt to let his homeys see him with his arm around a beautiful chick. "I'll have you know that I put this ensemble together myself. Besides, it doesn't matter what I look like -- I'm the Invisible Man, remember?"  
  
"Yah, and judging from some of the get-ups I've seen you in, that's usually a *good* thing."  
  
"Nice, very nice, Alex. There goes that bonding moment."  
  
"And here comes Hobbes. Let's get to him before he parks the van ...." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------  
  
Darien heard the pounding beat of the music at the La Bamba social club from almost half a block away. He and his two partners were walking -- Bobby and Alex arm-in-arm, no less -- from where they'd parked Golda, when the muffled din of the Latin dance music floated out to them. Darien took a look around at the neighborhood -- nothing but old factories, warehouses and dark alleys. La Bamba was just a small, grey cinderblock structure that had probably been the original office complex for the warehouse it fronted.  
  
"And she was complaining about parking her car at my place," Darien muttered to no one in particular. "Hey, Monroe, aren't you glad we didn't decide to just meet you here?"  
  
"Fine, Fawkes, this place makes your neighborhood look like the Taj Mahal, are you happy? Can we please just get on with this? Believe it or not, I have better things to do with my time than hang out with the two of you in some immigrant dance dive."  
  
Hobbes turned his head toward Alex, "Like what?"  
  
"What?" Alex stared back at him.  
  
"Like what? I mean, you're always going on about how you have so many better things to do than be with us, I'm just wondering what some of them are. 'Cuz you *never* tell us anything about 'em ...."  
  
"Yeah," Darien cut in, "that's a good question, Hobbes. What does she do in her spare time?"  
  
"Why thank you, partner," Bobby held out his hand for Darien's low-five. "I thought it was a good one, myself."  
  
"You know what, boys, I am so not playing this game ...."  
  
"Fine, Alex, you don't want to tell us," Darien wheedled, "we'll just have to make it up ourselves. What do you think, Hobbes? Cocktail waitress?"  
  
Hobbes looked Alex up and down, "Nah, too scrawny to fill out the costume. Uhm, supermarket checkout girl?"  
  
Darien started to nod his head when Monroe let out an exasperated sigh and stopped in her tracks. "Fine, you two want to know what I do in my down time. I'm a Big Sister."  
  
"What? You're a *nun*?" Hobbes was incredulous. Monroe closed her eyes, crossed her arms and started tapping her foot, steam almost visibly rising from her ears.  
  
Darien hurriedly clarified before Monroe could explode, "Uh, no, Bobby, I think what she means is Big Sister like in folks who work with underprivileged children."  
  
"That's right, Darien, when I'm not wasting my time dickering with you two dimwits," she gestured elegantly at the two men beside her, "I spend time with my Little Sister, Eshante. She lives in the projects with her mom and two brothers."  
  
"Li'l sis, big sis, huh, Alex? That's really nice actually. You know I should look into spending some of my time mentoring a growing boy to manhood," Bobby mused.  
  
"Yeah, really nice," Darien echoed. "It is a little weird thinking about you doing chick things with her though."  
  
"Darien, I am a girl, remember? And I love to do 'chick' things, as you so eloquently put it," she noted, "like shopping for clothes, eating ice cream, taking Tae Kwon Do, picking out your first pearl-handled sidearm ...."  
  
Darien whistled low through his teeth, then grabbed Alex's other arm and started the pair walking towards the club again. "Oh yeah, you enjoy being a girl," he mumbled sotto voce.  
  
Another quarter block from the club's entrance the line started, a mix of darkly handsome men and vibrantly attired Latin beauties. Maneuvering around the queue, the three agents marched straight up to the bouncer guarding the door. Almost as tall as Darien and certainly heftier, the man took one look at the trio, stopping to take in Monroe from head to toe, and announced, "Sorry. The club's full. Nobody gets in unless their name is on the list. And you guys don't look like your name is on this list."  
  
"Oh, you don't think our name is on the list, huh?" Bobby asked rhetorically, then slipped something into the bouncer's hand. "Well, why don't you just check? Name's Franklin, Benjamin Franklin."  
  
The bouncer pocketed Bobby's donation as he made a show of checking his list. "Ah, Mr. Franklin, why yes, here you are." The bouncer removed the velvet rope and waved them past the crowd. Amid the displeased hoots and catcalls following them through the dim club entrance, Darien could hear Bobby mutter, "Eberts better reimburse me for that, receipt or no receipt," and then they were in.  
  
Entering the club was almost like entering a sauna. The music was hot and so was the crowd, the smell of sweat and alcohol almost overpowering. The sound was ubiquitous, the insistent beat making conversation near impossible.  
  
"Jeez, this place is *packed*," Darien yelled to his two partners.  
  
"Yeah, way past the legal limit," Hobbes observed, taking in the room and its occupants in one rapid pan. "And what do you want to bet all the emergency exits are locked. I'm tempted to just shut them down right now ..."  
  
"We'll have time enough later to play fire marshal, Hobbes," Monroe observed dryly. "For now, let's just stick to the case at hand and find out where Amarillo is." She gestured towards a dim corner where there was an empty table strewn with discarded cocktail glasses.  
  
Threading their way through the crowd, they arrived at the tiny haven after a circuitous route around the dance floor. Thankfully, the music in their little corner was slightly muffled so they could carry on their conversations without shouting. Sitting down, Bobby waved a waitress over and ordered them all a round of drinks.  
  
"If you ask me, it's those frozen machines they have that make it," he mused playing with the cerise globe speared by a Day-Glo orange umbrella in his pina colada.  
  
Darien took a pull on his draft, "Yeah, well nobody asked you. What I want to know is how are we gonna ID Amarillo in this crowd?"  
  
"Easy," Alex said putting down her Cosmopolitan. "You just look for ..."  
  
"...The guy those two big mooks over by the bar are playing bodyguard for," Bobby chimed in.  
  
"Exactly," Alex nodded, clinking glasses with Bobby in a salute.  
  
While the other two agents kept the goons in sight, Darien surveyed his surroundings with a veteran thief's eye. The place was jammed and Bobby was probably right, all the exits were most likely locked to discourage anyone from trying to sneak in. So the only way out that he could see was through the front -- not the best choice for a quick get-away. Then Darien noticed people emerging around the corner from where he stood and from what looked like it should be a plain wall. Not too many, just a couple of waitresses, but what really caught his attention was that every once in a while another shark-suited goon would come out and relieve one of the two standing by the bar.  
  
"Ah, guys, I think I'm gonna go visit the little boys room," Darien excused himself and left the table, making sure to check out that magical wall as he sauntered over to the lounges. Sure enough, there was a halo of light in the shape of a door almost all the way over to the right, next to some very large, very fake tropical plants. Rather than making a pit stop, Darien cruised his way around the bar area, circling back as quickly as he could to his fellow agents. "Ah guys," he said, "I think I found the rabbit hole to Wonderland."  
  
"What do you got, Fawkes?" Bobby's ears immediately perked up, while his eyes never left his surveillance targets.  
  
'"There's a hidden door along that back wall, all the way down by the potted plants. It seems to be emitting a steady stream of our friends over by the bar there ...."  
  
"Ah the 'ole door-in-the-wall routine, huh?" Bobby turned his gaze from the goons at the bar just long enough to give Darien a quick slap on the back.  
  
"Guys, guys, I think we've got movement," Alex alerted them, placing a hand on Bobby's arm to draw the older agent's attention. The three watched as the two goons broke from the bar and slithered over to flank an elegant figure who had just risen from a large group at a corner table across the club from them. The man was tall, possibly an inch or two taller than Darien, with close-cropped, wavy dark hair and a bronze profile reminiscent of Incan carvings. His suit was raw silk, obviously handmade, its coffee shimmer set off by a deep umber silk shirt and matching tie. He wore no jewelry except for two small gold hoops in his ears and a sleek Movado Museum watch.  
  
Alex was up out of her chair and on an intercept course before Amarillo was even half way across the club. 'Mr. Amarillo," she called out. "My name is Alex Monroe. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."  
  
Amarillo beamed down at Alex, his smile dimming slightly as Darien and Hobbes came up behind her. "And to what, beautiful lady, do I owe this pleasure?" His voice was low, fluid and with only a trace of an accent to add to its lilt.  
  
"Well, Mr. Amarillo, it seems your reputation precedes you," Alex fawned. "We were told you were just the person who could help us expand our line of business ...."  
  
"And what business would that be?" Amarillo asked carefully, narrowing his eyes and adjusting his tie.  
  
"You know, we're a couple of independent business men, like yourself," Hobbes began to spin one of his impromptu cover stories.  
  
"Yeah, uh, we're businessmen, who, you know, are independent ...," Darien tried to improvise, but was cut short by Alex driving one of her stiletto heels into his right foot. "Ouch!" He turned to glare down at her tiny figure. "What'd you do that for?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see your foot there," Alex smiled widely at the club owner and slid her arm into the crook of his elbow. "What my two gentlemen friends are trying to say is that we own a chain of convenience stores up in the L.A. area. We're looking to expand our market to cater more towards the Hispanic population. Word on the street is that you specialize in importing Latin American goods ...." Arms still linked they sauntered over to the door Darien had seen Amarillo's henchmen emerge from earlier.  
  
"Yeah, particularly cigarettes, ya know? 'Tres Gatos Negros,' say? I'd love to see the profit margin on those babies," Hobbes enthused, "particularly if we could, ah, forgo the 'customary' red tape, if you catch my drift."  
  
At Bobby's mention of the South American cigarettes, Amarillo's face turned stony. "No, I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean. I import many items so that my fellow immigrants, "he gestured widely at the mob thronging the club, "can have at least a small taste of their home to comfort them in this new country. But these cigarettes you mention, 'Tres Gatos Negros,' was it? Of these I know nothing. And now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he gave a slight nod towards Alex, "my lady, I have a business to run. Good night." With a last nod towards Alex, Amarillo stepped quickly through the door and was gone.  
  
"Nice going, Hobbes. I had him all softened up and then you go and practically accuse him to his face. If you'd just held off on 'The Shield' routine for a few minutes, I might have been able to get Amarillo to spill the beans." Alex sighed and preened at her dress. "Now all we're left with," she threw a disgusted look in Darien's direction, "is *him*. God help us all."  
  
"Oh, gee, thanks for the vote of confidence there, missy," Darien deadpanned.  
  
"Alright, alright, enough with the whining or we don't stop for ice cream on the way home there, kiddies. Capish?" Bobby quickly scanned the perimeter of the club, then gave the dance floor a summary glance. "Alright, Plan B: You," he pointed at Darien, "go cellophane, then slip in back and try to get the goods. We'll provide the distraction. Meet us at the van in 15 minutes. You," he pointed at Monroe, "with me, on the dance floor now."  
  
Darien watched Hobbes steer Alex straight to the middle of the teeming dance floor. As the exuberant beat of the next song began to pound, the two agents expertly executed the intricate, sensual steps of the rumba ... or was it the mambo ... certainly it wasn't the tango. Darien shook his head. He had no idea what dance Bobby and Alex were doing nor where they'd learned to dance like that, but they must have been doing something right. The previously inchoate crowd gathered in a circle around the dance floor watching the two agents and cheering them on with hoots and whistles. Darien used the distraction to step into a darkened corner and let the Quicksilver coat his rangy limbs.  
  
Passing unseen by Amarillo's two henchmen, he followed a trim waitress with a sheaf of long, fiery red curls carrying a glass of what looked to be straight rum through the side door. He paused for a moment to admire her pert rear view barely covered by her tiny black dress, when she entered another door to the left. From inside the room, Darien could hear Amarillo take the drink and greet the girl as "Cara mia" -- apparently that was his office, as well as his favorite drink and main squeeze.  
  
So, it looked like ole Jorge was gonna be getting busy for while. 'All the better for me to snoop around then, my dear,' Darien paraphrased the Brothers Grimm in his head. The hall was long, but with few doors on either side. Making his way down the hall, he stopped and listened at each, cracking them open and peering inside quickly. Once he had to spring back as someone in the room jumped up and slammed the door shut. Darien had just enough time, though, to catch a glimpse of money -- lots of money -- loose on long tables, as well as in neat stacks. He made a mental note of that room's location and continued down to the last door at the end of the hall.  
  
The noise coming from behind that door had a different ring to it -- more of an echo and more industrial in nature. Darien slipped through the door and entered a huge storehouse chockablock with Malta-brand beverages, Salma spices and other Hispanic household items. Wandering through the warren of floor-to-ceiling palettes, Darien came out onto the loading dock where bins of fresh calabaza squash and plantains were being disgorged from tractor- trailers. More out of habit than any real worry about Quicksilver madness -- though he still had trouble believing that particular torture was truly gone from his life -- Darien stopped the Quicksilver flow, hid behind a bin, and watched as crate after crate of produce came off the trucks.  
  
The workers, all clearly immigrants and all clearly non-union, began cracking open the crates and tossing the produce into the appropriate bins. Darien wondered briefly why they didn't just leave the fruits and vegetables in their shipping crates, when the answer to his question suddenly appeared. Halfway through a crate full of green plantains, one of the workers pulled out an oversized carton wrapped in brown paper. He set it aside and finished emptying the crate. In the meantime, his co-workers were all pulling similar packages from their produce containers.  
  
When they were finished, the workers went back for more crates to empty, while the foreman gathered up the brown packages. Creeping through the shadows, Darien followed him as he made his way into the interior of the warehouse. When the foreman stopped near the far wall, Darien could see cartons upon cartons of "Tres Gatos Negros" climbing up towards the ceiling. The foreman knelt to open the packages he'd carried back. Staying behind him and out of his line of sight, Darien surreptitiously leaned forward to try and get a better look to confirm what he suspected those packages contained.  
  
What Darien hadn't counted on was that since he was still visible he cast a shadow over the man and the packages. At the sudden change in his lighting, the foreman turned and caught Darien in the chin with a right hook. Darien staggered back, then took off down the maze of shipping palettes, the foreman hot on his heels and calling to his companions for help. Darien had almost made it to the hall door when a sumo wrestler of a man blocked his path. He had just enough time to mutter, "Oh crap," before the sumo knocked him on his ass with one good roundhouse punch. By then, the foreman had caught up and began viciously kicking Darien in the stomach when he tried to get up. The other workers joined in and it became a free for all. He lay on the floor and took the beating for a bit -- it wasn't like it was his first after all and more than likely wouldn't be his last -- then when the crowd was so thick they could barely tell who was hitting whom, he rolled away, sliding under one of the stacks of industrial shelving.  
  
In the minute or so it took for the workers to realize their victim had escaped, Darien Quicksilvered and slipped out from under the shelves. Retracing his steps back to the far wall, he grabbed one of the brown packages, shielding it from sight as well. Then he made his way out to the loading dock, carefully avoiding any near misses with the bustling workers who were now searching for him, and jumped down into the alley. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------  
  
Hobbes and Monroe were waiting at the van when Darien arrived, Bobby pacing back and forth while Alex leaned against Golda's side, her arms and legs crossed. Darien got a nice little jolt of satisfaction as they both jumped when he magically appeared in front of them. That was quickly replaced with annoyance as Bobby took one look at him and began fishing in his back pants pocket for his wallet.  
  
"So you got your ass kicked again, huh?" the older agent asked.  
  
"Told you so," Alex crowed as she held her palm out to receive Bobby's $20 bill.  
  
"Oh great, I'm so glad my getting the crap kicked out of me proved profitable for one of you," Darien whinged. "And oh, by the way, while you two were so busy dancing up a storm and wagering over my well being, I happened to have been gathering the necessary evidence to solve this case." He proudly held up the mysterious brown package. "The produce containers Amarillo is importing are full of these and I'm betting that when we remove the plain brown wrapper, it ain't gonna be stacks of 'Penthouse' inside."  
  
"Ha ha, good work, partner!" Bobby slapped Darien on the back, then held out his hand to Alex who slapped the $20 bill back into it. "Told you so," he mimicked.  
  
Darien winced, "Nice, thanks, Bobby."  
  
"So what you're saying, Fawkes, is that not only did you alert them to your presence there, you took one of these packages so that now they know *exactly* what the focus of our investigation is?" Unlike Bobby, Alex looked decidedly unpleased.  
  
"Oh and what would you have done, Alex?"  
  
"How about stay invisible the whole time, observe the operation, then report back to my fellow agents so we could catch them red-handed?"  
  
"You forget, we've got them red-handed," Darien haughtily corrected, pointing to the contents of the package Bobby had now opened. "See, chock full of 'Tres Gatos Negros,' all amazingly tax-stamp free. That's proof positive right there, Suzy."  
  
"Yeah," Alex countered, "And all completely inadmissible as evidence since we didn't have a warrant to go in and get it." She gave him a terse smile worthy of a crocodile.  
  
"Hey, what can I say, I'm a thief," Darien held out his hands in a plaintive gesture, "I'm used to having to worry about *avoiding* warrants, not getting them. So what now?"  
  
"He's got a point there, Alex," Bobby chimed in. "His experience with criminal activities does come from a unique perspective, law-enforcement wise. Besides, we got the goods, give me 15 minutes alone with Amarillo and he'll be ready to confess."  
  
"Great that's all we need to do -- add brutality to warrantless search and seizure. Hey, why don't we just force him to change his religion and violate all his rights at once?" Alex let out a delicate snort. "Don't you two worry your pretty little heads about this anymore, *I'll* take care of it." She pulled her cellphone from her bag and hit speed dial. "Yeah, Monroe here. We need an arrest team on site at Grape and Columbia pronto. And call Judge Hanover and tell him I need a warrant to search the same premises retroactive to oh, say, an hour ago. Good. Yeah, tell the team to report to me, I'll be here when they arrive. Thanks."  
  
"So what, that's it? Just like that, you make a phone call and poof we've got a take-down team and a retroactive warrant on the way?" Bobby was flabbergasted.  
  
"Yes, Hobbes, just like that," Alex stood up taller and raised her chin at him. "I've told you before. It's all about relationships."  
  
"Yeah, well, you can kiss my relationships there, sister, if you think I'm gonna let you waltz away with this collar ...."  
  
Darien grabbed his side and groaned. "Hey, guys, you know what? If you don't need me anymore, you think I could just go home and die now"  
  
"What, partner, are you OK? Is it really bad? Do you need me to take you to the Keep?" Bobby burst into full mother-hen mode.  
  
"No, man, no, I'm OK. I've had worse believe me. But I do think it would be a good thing for me to get horizontal for a while."  
  
"That's fine, Darien," Alex said. "You'd only get in the way now anyhow. Bobby, you gonna drive him home?"  
  
Bobby looked from Alex to Darien then back again, his lips working but with nothing coming out of his mouth. "That's OK, man," Darien decided to take pity on his partner, "I'll just catch a cab back to my place. You can fill me in on all the juicy bits in the morning, alright?"  
  
"Well, alright, but you're sure you're OK, you don't need me to get the Keep for you?" Bobby still looked concerned, but definitely relieved that he'd been spared the Sophie's choice of deciding between taking Darien home and partaking in Amarillo's upcoming arrest and interrogation.  
  
"I'm sure I'm sure, man," Darien half laughed as he borrowed one of Hobbes' favorite phrases. "But hey, I'm tapped. Could you lend me 20 bucks for the cab?"  
  
Bobby handed the $20 he'd received from Monroe to a triumphantly beaming Darien. "Good, kid, go home and get some sleep. We'll be picking you up at 6:45 sharp in the morning. Gonna be a lotta paperwork to file on this one ...." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------  
  
The yellow cab disgorged Darien in front of Poncho's Taco Shop about 15 minutes later. Stepping up to the counter, he ordered an apres-club snack of two chicken tacos and a pork tostada with a side of guacamole.  
  
Swinging the white paper sack along at his side, he hummed the addictive melody of Marc Anthony's "I Need to Know" as he sauntered along to his building. His surprise when he got there almost sent the bag -- and his supper -- sailing. Sitting on his front stoop and kicking her crossed legs carelessly was Lola. A black jersey dress sprinkled with poppies all over wrapped her diminutive figure. Large red flowers on the front of her platform shoes repeated the theme, their petals flopping to and fro as her feet bounced impatiently. "It's about time you showed," she said looking up at him, then frowning at the scuff marks on his face. "Guess the date didn't go so well, huh?"  
  
Darien rubbed a hand across his face. "Uh, no ... I mean, it was a fight ... I mean, it wasn't a date." He held his hand out to help her to her feet. "I mean, do you want to come up?"  
  
She took his hand and stood, then bent down and retrieved a white bakery box and a smaller version of what he had come to know as "the duffle of death" from their brief road trip together. "Do you ever meet anybody you don't piss off?" She cocked her head at him.  
  
He gave her a wry grin. "Ah, very rarely." He mounted the steps and opened the door, then waited for her to go through first. Following her up the stairs, he studied her rump thoughtfully. "Hey, how'd you find out where I lived anyway?"  
  
"A little bird told me." She stopped at the top of the stairs and he put a hand on her shoulder and steered her to his abode.  
  
"Oh, really. And would this bird have a name?" Darien already had his suspicions that this bird was a short, dark, balding one known as Hobbes. He reached over her to put his key in his lock.  
  
"He might, but then again, I really don't think you want to bring up the topic of names with me, Ray." He grimaced at the jibe while he swung the door open, mentally began plotting Bobby's death, and then followed her into his apartment. Looking around for just a moment, she made a beeline for his kitchen counter and deposited the bakery box. He put his sack from Poncho's next to it, then hustled over to the living room, grabbed an armful of the leftover Chinese food cartons and empty beer bottles he and Bobby had shared two nights earlier and dumped them on the counter. "Uh, sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting company," he scrubbed his hands through his hair.  
  
She raised her eyebrows at him, "Looks to me like you've already had it."  
  
"What? Oh no, no. That was just Hobbes and me chowing down and watching some movies," Darien looked down at her with soulful eyes under long lashes. "So, ah, whatchya got in the package?"  
  
She pointed to the Poncho's sack. "Well, now, I wouldn't want to spoil your dinner ...."  
  
"Hehehe, you know what they say," he halfway grinned at her, "'Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.'"  
  
She laughed and grabbed a small utility knife from the block sitting on his counter. "You know, if more people thought like you, I'd be a rich woman." She cut the string on the box and pushed it towards him.  
  
The earthy smell of cinnamon and sugar wafted up and he shoved his hand in the box. "Oatmeal cookies!" he crowed, waving one around triumphantly. "How'd you know they're my favorite?"  
  
"A little bird told me." She began fishing around in the oversized satchel, which was apparently her purse.  
  
He snorted as he chewed his cookie. "Let me guess, the same little birdie that told you where I lived."  
  
Still struggling to retrieve something from her bag, she replied, "No, another little birdie. You wouldn't believe what someone will tell you when you hold their daily allotment of cherry-cinnamon jumbles hostage."  
  
"Eberts," Darien muttered. He was going to strangle the little weasel right after he finished with Bobby, then thought perhaps he'd better kill Eberts first. Bobby was definitely going to be the tougher nut.  
  
Lola finally straightened and slapped something onto Darien's counter. "Actually you'd be surprised by how much I know about you now."  
  
Darien took one look at the familiar manila folder and immediately put Bobby back at the top of his list of people to kill. "You shouldn't have that," he got up and automatically checked out the windows. "It's not safe for you ...."  
  
Lola blinked at him from across the room, then furrowed her brows. "It's OK. He told me it was 'unclassified.'"  
  
"Even so, it's still not safe," he came back to the counter, snatched the file and shoved it in a drawer as if that might keep it safe from prying eyes. "People might not know that it wasn't classified and if they thought you knew something ...." He reached out and put a hand on her cheek. "I don't want to think what might happen."  
  
"I'm alright, Ray," she took his hand from her cheek, "besides, it looks like you're the one that something's happened to." Dropping his hand, she took a kitchen towel and began wiping at the bruises on Darien's face. "Do you have any Bacitracin and some Band-Aids?"  
  
"Ah, yah, in the bathroom cabinet." Darien moved towards the bathroom but she caught his arm.  
  
"No, no, you sit, I'll get them."  
  
Darien took her advice gladly, seating himself on his couch. Emerging from his bathroom with her supplies, she set to work putting ointment on his bruises and bandaging the worst of them. "So," he said, "I thought you never wanted to see me again."  
  
"I never said that," she surveyed his face, tilting her head from one side or another.  
  
"You said you wanted me to stay the hell away from you ...," he grimaced as she swiped some ointment on a newly found scrape.  
  
"And I meant it." She nodded in satisfaction at her handiwork, then returned to the bathroom to put the Bacitracin and Band-Aids back in his medicine chest.  
  
"So if you meant it, then why are you here? Not, not that I'm not glad that you are here, Lo, hell, I'm ecstatic you're here ...."  
  
She came to stand before him with her hands on her hips and let out a sigh. "You know, Ray, I really did mean it -- at the time. It was just that I was so damn angry, angry with you, angry with myself," she threw her hands out, turned around and paced over to Darien's pool table. "Yes, you lied to me, but I *knew*. I'm not stupid; I've been lied to enough times by men that I should have seen it coming. Hell, I've got two failed relationships and a broken marriage to attest to that fact," she sighed, ran a hand through her hair. "I told you I had lousy taste in men. But you were so goofy and so charming, I guess I just wanted to believe in the fairytale for a little while. And when it all came crashing down it was much easier to blame you than to blame myself."  
  
Darien rose from the couch and came to stand behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said gently, "You know, I once heard someone rather wise say, 'Don't hide your love behind your anger.'"  
  
She turned to face him. "Is that what you think this is, then, 'love'?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, I really don't," Darien shook his head. "Love just seems an easy way of phrasing it. I don't claim to be an expert on love. I don't exactly have a sterling track record in that department either. I mean, let's face it, from a romantic standpoint, we're a train wreck waiting to happen ...."  
  
"But still ...," she said softly and put her arms on his shoulders.  
  
He pulled her into his arms, stooping down and touching his forehead to hers. "But still ...," he echoed, then captured her mouth in a series of shy, soft, searching kisses.  
  
When they finished, she tucked her head under his chin, rested her cheek on his shoulder and just stood silent for a few moments. Finally she stepped away and gave a deep exhale. She tilted her head up and looked him straight in the eye. "All right, then, here's the deal," she began, "Let's just take this day by day and see where it leads us. No strings, no lies, no promises we're not going to be able to keep. And if one of us wants to walk away, then that's it, we walk away, no questions asked. Deal?" She held out her hand for his handshake.  
  
"Uh, yah, but look, I just want you to know ... about what, ah, happened in the car ... on the way home from Sacramento ...."  
  
"It's alright, you don't need to explain -- I saw the marks on your arm -- the important thing is that you're trying to beat it ...."  
  
"No, no, it's not ... it *wasn't* what it looked like. More importantly it's not going to happen again, that I can *promise* you. But about the 'no lies' thing ... ah, there are some things about me, about my work, that I just can't tell you, Lo, that I may *never* be able to tell you ...."  
  
She held up her hands to stop his stream of words. "I understand, truly I do. Heck, I know more about your work after being handcuffed and locked in that damn padded room than I ever wanted to know. I don't want you to tell me things you can't, all I'm asking is that you just don't lie to me. Just tell me you can't tell me, OK?"  
  
"OK."  
  
She put her out her hand again. "Well, then, do we have a deal?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," he grabbed her wrist and tugged her quickly into his chest. He put his head down, nuzzled her ear and whispered, "Did I happen to mention how hot you looked in those handcuffs?"  
  
"No," she drawled, "but I must say, those accounts of your prison stays in your file did give me some lovely mental images...."  
  
"Careful, Miss Gerot, or you're gonna get a spanking," he wagged his finger and glared at her playfully. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------  
  
Darien woke early at not quite five-thirty in the morning. He was still sore from the previous night's beating, but in spite of that he felt extraordinarily good. He was tempted to just lay back and luxuriate in the warmth of having an extra body in his bed, but if he knew Hobbes and Monroe, they'd be banging on his door in just a bit over an hour. He snorted silently at the mental image he got of Hobbes and Monroe banging, then slid from the bed and padded to the shower.  
  
Lola was already up when he emerged. She was standing in the kitchen making coffee wearing the grey "Obey" t-shirt he'd left rumpled on the chest beside his bed. She took one look at him in his towel and mock drawled, "Why, Mister Fawkes, I do believe you are making my mouth water."  
  
He grinned, then swaggered to meet her in the kitchen and dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. "Well, make sure you get an eyeful there, missy. It's gonna have to hold you for the rest of the day." He waggled his eyebrows at her and dropped his towel to the floor, strutting over to his dresser.  
  
"Oh my." She grinned and cocked an eyebrow of her own.  
  
"Yeah, I get that a lot," he deadpanned. He turned to his bureau and started removing his clothes for the day.  
  
Lola watched for a moment as he threw a pair of white briefs, some mismatched white athletic socks, a bright orange button down shirt and tan jeans on the bed. "I guess it's my turn to go and get cleaned up then."  
  
He heard her start strolling over to the bathroom. As he leaned down to pull his shoes out from under the bed, he felt a sharp swat on his butt. He stood up, whirled around and reached out to grab her. "Why you little."  
  
She was already gone, giggling, into the bathroom. He heard her still giggling as the shower started from behind the closed door. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------  
  
Darien took one last sip of his coffee and checked his watch. Crap, Hobbes and Monroe would be here any minute to pick him up for work. He didn't want them coming upstairs with Lola here, but he didn't want to go downstairs to meet them without saying goodbye. Just what was it that chicks did in the shower that took them so damn long? He shook his head and figured that that, like the meaning of life, was a question for the ages.  
  
The clock was still ticking, though, so he grabbed his jacket and keys, figuring he'd just poke his head into the shower for a quick see-you-later. He was halfway to the bathroom when he heard the knock at the door. "Uh, just a minute," he yelled out, frantically surveying his apartment for damage control. The place was a shambles with clothes strewn everywhere. Crap, crap, double crap.  
  
"What do you mean, 'just a minute'?" Hobbes replied, testing the doorknob and finding it locked. "Aw, Fawkes, do *not* tell me you overslept again."  
  
"Nah, nah, I'm ready, just, uh, give me a moment." Darien pulled Lola's thong from off the lamp and shoved it into his pants' pocket, then gathered up the rest of her clothes in a bundle with the intention of putting them in the bathroom for her.  
  
Another voice came through the door. "Would you just use your key, Bobby? I'm getting tired of standing out here in the hall." That was Monroe. Triple crap.  
  
He heard Bobby's key slide into the lock. Okay, if he could just make it to the bathroom first ..  
  
The front door opened. The bathroom door opened. An annoyed Hobbes and Monroe stood in the apartment doorway. A towel-wrapped Lola stood in the bathroom doorway. Darien stood in the middle of his apartment holding an armful of very feminine clothing.  
  
"Uh, hi, guys, what's up?"  
  
Hobbes snorted, Monroe quirked her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Lola, thank God, started laughing softly.  
  
"Agent Hobbes, Agent Monroe, how nice to see you again," she said dryly. Then she nonchalantly walked over to Darien and took the bundle of clothing out of his arms. "I'll just go get dressed in the bathroom." She returned to the bathroom and shut the door.  
  
Darien dropped his arms and turned to his fellow agents. "You know, when someone says 'Wait a minute,' it usually means something like, oh, I don't know, wait a *freakin'* minute."  
  
"Uhm, sorry there, buddy. We didn't mean to intrude on anything." Hobbes looked sheepish.  
  
"Yeah, we, uhm, thought you had overslept again." Good God, was Monroe actually embarrassed? Darien grinned wanly as he felt his world suddenly take a left turn into the surreal.  
  
Then the bathroom door opened again and Lola, still clad in a towel, marched out. She looked searchingly around the apartment, then questioningly at him. After a moment of looking him up and down, she reached out and pulled her forgotten thong out of his pocket. Okay, make that a sharp left turn.  
  
As he watched her svelte form returning to the bathroom, a mischievous thought occurred to him. He was already busted beyond belief; he might as well make the most of it. He still hadn't gotten his goodbye kiss, no reason now that he shouldn't make it interesting.  
  
He followed her into the bathroom and shut the door, only to be shoved out a moment or two later amid much giggling.  
  
"Get the hell out of here you grabby little son of a ...."  
  
Darien stood in front of the bathroom door, holding her towel and grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, you liked it last night," he teased.  
  
Lola popped her head out of the door. "Well, we didn't have an audience last night. Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's rude to play a game unless all your guests can participate?" And back she went, like a turtle pulling its head back into its shell.  
  
"Great," Darien groaned, "Last night she was Traci Lords; this morning she's Emily Post." He dropped the towel on the couch and turned to his two partners. "*This*," he accused Hobbes, "is all *your* fault and don't think I'm not going to make you pay for it."  
  
Hobbes held up his hands and shrugged in a "who me?" gesture. Monroe just stood there trying to look innocent.  
  
"Don't worry, big D," Lola's soft voice floated up behind him. "Traci's still here." Darien jumped as two small hands clamped firmly down on his butt. "She's just got to go to work." The hands slid around his hips and Lola's smiling face ducked under his arm as she came to stand in front of him. "Now, give me a kiss, you lug nut, and let me get out of here."  
  
So he did, kissing her for all he was worth and then some, screw the damn audience. When he released her, she looked slightly dazed, much to his satisfaction. "I'll pick you up after work at the shop for a late supper tonight, OK?"  
  
"Well that depends," she said. "Are we talking a real, honest-to-God, sit- down restaurant and not Poncho's or Chinese take out?" She waved her hand at the leftover take-out containers littering his counter.  
  
Darien laughed and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. We can even make it one of those God-awful, gourmet-type places you like?"  
  
"OK." Lola smiled, popped up her toes to give him a quick smooch and then was gone. Maybe it was the former New Yorker in her, but man, that girl could move quick when she wanted.  
  
Darien jingled his keys and started towards the door and his two partners. "Okay you guys, let's get this show on the road. Fat man's probably already had a cow waiting for us."  
  
"Oh sure, you first there, partner." Both Hobbes and Monroe motioned for Darien to exit the apartment. As they started down the stairs, Bobby was the first to break.  
  
"Lug nut?" he snorted.  
  
"Big D?" Alex choked out.  
  
Darien sighed. It was going to be a long, *long* day. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------  
  
Hobbes and Alex were still giggling like schoolgirls halfway to the Agency. "Alright, already, alright. Are you two through?" Darien half-heartedly grumbled from the back of the van. "I mean it, don't you two have some kind of secret-agent-y stuff to discuss here rather than snickering over my love life?"  
  
"What'sa matter, there, partner? We killing your afterglow?" Bobby asked as he casually changed lanes.  
  
"Hey, I'm just trying to act like a professional here," Darien countered, then glared at Alex when she snorted, "Of course if you two are jealous, just 'cuz I got lucky and you didn't ...."  
  
"Hey, hey, hold on there, Gilligan, who said we didn't get lucky?" The older agent brought the van to an abrupt halt at a red light.  
  
"Lucky?" Darien's eyes widened, then narrowed as if just by concentrating he could see past Hobbes' dark sunglasses, "really?"  
  
"That's right," Bobby assured him, "We got lucky, didn't we, Alex?" The female agent gave a wide smile, nodded and murmured, "Ah hah," at an astonished Darien.  
  
"You mean you two? Together?" Darien passed a hand across his forehead, then jolted back as the van started to move again. "Whoa, that's gonna take some serious mental adjusting ...."  
  
"And Amarillo," Alex tossed in breathlessly.  
  
"And Amar ...," Darien swiveled to face Alex, "OK, now you're just playing with me."  
  
"Ah hah," said Bobby, "So much for acting like a professional. Get your mind out of the gutter, there, Fawkesy. What my dear Miss Monroe means is that once we got Amarillo into custody he sang like the proverbial canary."  
  
"What is it with all these bird references, lately?" Darien asked.  
  
Monroe quirked her eyebrows at him, "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Ah, nothing, never mind," Darien shook his head as if to clear it, "so what did Amarillo have to say? He confessed right ... to smuggling the cigarettes?"  
  
"Oh yeah, he confessed. Nobody goes toe to toe with Bobby Hobbes in the interrogation box, my friend, and don't confess," Bobby nodded his head firmly. "But that ain't all."  
  
Darien leaned forward towards his partner. "Don't tell me -- the butts were laced with drugs, right? Man, I really am good at this investigation stuff ...."  
  
"Hold on there, Inspector Cluseau," Monroe said. "Don't go congratulating yourself too soon. As a matter of fact, Amarillo did admit to smuggling the cigarettes into the country. But he claims he was only the middleman. Seems he was approached by someone working for Mariposa Importers who he says paid him to bring the cigarettes into the country."  
  
"OK, but why would Mariposa want Amarillo to smuggle the cigarettes into the country for them. I mean considering they do have the word 'Importers' in their name it would seem to imply that they're in the business of importing things, no?"  
  
"Well, that's a good question there, Fawkes," Bobby mused, "but I got an even better one for you: why would Mariposa Importers ask Amarillo to legally import the cigarettes and still charge less than the going rate?"  
  
"What? You mean Mariposa didn't want Amarillo to smuggle the cigarettes in to avoid the tax charges?" Both agents nodded at Darien. "And then they still wanted him to sell the cigarettes at below cost?" Both agents nodded at him again. "So they were willing to not only pay Amarillo to import the cigarettes but also eat the tariffs just to make sure these things were cheaper than any other cigarettes out there?" Once again both agents heads bobbed.  
  
"You got it," Monroe said.  
  
"Well, I've run a few cons in my time, but I gotta tell you this sounds like the screwiest one I've ever heard. I mean, where are they making the money?"  
  
"Well, that would be the $65,000 question, now wouldn't it?" Bobby pulled up and parked the van in front of the Agency. "Unless of course, this scam ain't about making money."  
  
"Well, if it's not about making money," Darien asked as he climbed out the back of the van, "what *is* it about?"  
  
"And that, my friend, would be the $1 million question," Bobby answered following his two fellow agents into the building and down to the Keep. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------  
  
'I still stay they're laced with drugs. Maybe not by this Amarillo dude, but then by Mariposa," Darien stepped from elevator still regaling his two partners with his favorite theory.  
  
"Think, Fawkes, for God's sake," Alex swiped her access card and the doors to the Keep swished open. "If the cigarettes *were* laced with drugs, would Mariposa have wanted Amarillo to legally import them?"  
  
"Yeah, but if they aren't why have Amarillo import them at all? Why not just do it themselves?"  
  
"Because of the bugs," Claire stated.  
  
"Huh?" All three agents stared at the Keeper.  
  
"The bugs. These samples that you provided me with yesterday, Darien, are *full* of eggs for the Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter."  
  
"Glassy eyed ...." Darien instantly dropped the cigarette he'd been playing with. "They're not like spiders or something?"  
  
"No, they're more along the lines of the Med Fly. The Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter lives by sucking the sap out of grape vines and citrus crops. Besides the cigarettes don't contain the bugs themselves, just the eggs, which should remain dormant under normal use conditions."  
  
Bobby walked over to where Claire sat and began fiddling with her microscope. "So wait, you're telling me these guys are trying to get folks hooked on *bugs*?"  
  
"No, no," Claire slapped Bobby's hands away from her equipment, "the nicotine addiction is probably more than adequate for their purposes ...."  
  
"Which brings me back to my question: just what are their purposes? I mean can these bugs harm people?" Darien leaned over Claire's shoulder to peer into her microscope.  
  
Claire gave an exasperated sigh and stamped her foot at Darien who quickly retreated from the Keeper's toys. "Well, no, not directly," she explained. "The people smoking these probably have no idea that there's anything in these cigarettes except tobacco. They're totally transparent in terms of taste, and in fact, the eggs are completely infecund under regular circumstances. *But* when damp, the tobacco *is* a perfect incubating material ...."  
  
"You mean, like in a wet field, say?" Hobbes chimed in.  
  
"Why yes, Bobby," Claire answered. "What are you thinking?"  
  
"Yeah, you wanna clue the rest of the Super Friends in here, Captain America?" Darien leaned against the administering chair and scratched his chin.  
  
"Fawkes, Fawkes, when are you gonna wake up and smell the coffee? The first guy you got the cigarettes from, where'd he work?"  
  
"Uh, Plains View Farms."  
  
"That's right. A produce farm. And produce farms, my friend, are exactly where a great majority of the immigrant population works ...."  
  
"The same people who are being targeted with these cigarettes," Alex finished Bobby's sentence.  
  
Claire glared at the two as Bobby picked up Alex's thread, "And what do you want to bet that all those workers aren't being too careful about where they throw their butts while they're out working in the fields?"  
  
"Which are being irrigated due to the drought," the scientist in Claire took over and she quickly fell in sync with Hobbes' hypothesis, "which means that the fields are going to be infested with these pests, if they're not already. It could be devastating."  
  
"Whoa, devastating, Claire? I thought you said these things were harmless to people. That they were only a threat to grape vines."  
  
"No, I said they wouldn't harm the smokers *directly* and that under normal circumstances they only attacked certain crops. But even then they represent a very grim threat to a multi-billion dollar industry because they transmit a mosaic virus to the wine grapes and citrus fruits that kills the plants in one season," Claire pushed her bangs out of her face, "These, however, are not your run-of-the-mill, average Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter eggs. These have been genetically altered so that the virus they transmit can jump species of flora. That means they're not just a danger to grapevines, but rather to *all* types of produce -- citrus, almonds, fruit, corn, you name it. In fact, just one pack of these cigarettes carries enough eggs to wipe out an entire farm. And if, as Bobby says, these things have been discarded in fields throughout the area," Claire set her pretty pout into a somber line, "well, we're looking at crop destruction on a scale that could make the Med Fly epidemic of the early 80s look like a minor annoyance. The result would be widespread famine, not just in this state but across the entire nation and the obliteration of the California agricultural industry, which would crush the state's entire economy."  
  
Darien paled at Claire's use of the word 'obliteration' and looked from one grim face to another and another. "OK," he said finally, "it pains me to say this, but I think it's time to see the Fat Man." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
"It's Arnaud."  
  
"I'm putting my money on Stark."  
  
"No, no, it's *so* obviously Islamic bioterrorists."  
  
"People!" The Official barked over the tumult of suggestions being offered by the agents around his conference table, "We will know in due course who is responsible for such a contemptible threat to the public safety. In the meantime, this exigency demands our swift and rapid response. Now, suggestions on how to eradicate these pests?"  
  
"Well, sir," Claire began, "one traditional remedy would be to burn the affected the crops. However, with a potential infestation this massive and given that the insects have been bio-engineered to attack many different crops, that solution would merely bring about the same starvation and economic destruction the bugs were designed to cause."  
  
"So, doctor, what do you propose?"  
  
"Given that crop burning is out of the question, the only other alternative is chemical pesticides. But that too is not without potential hazards since the application would have to be wide scale in nature thereby threatening anyone -- human or animal -- with a sensitivity to such chemicals. Which is why so many environmental groups have long opposed their use except in very limited scenarios" Claire looked around the table at her co-workers before delivering the coup de grace, "Then again, there's no guarantee that traditional pesticides would even work on these. I mean, whoever bio-engineered these bugs could very well have designed them to be resistant to commonly used industrial pesticides. I'd like to get a look at some of these bugs in their adult state so that I can fine-tune the exact mix of chemicals that will effectively eradicate the insects and their larvae while minimizing the potential threat of chemical contamination to the public, livestock, and wildlife."  
  
"Oh this is just great. So not only do we still not know who built these little buggers, we don't even know if we can stop 'em?" Darien placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.  
  
"Oh, we can stop 'em," Bobby swiveled in his chair to face first Darien, then the Keeper, "We'll stop 'em, you'll see. Claire ... the Keep'll find a way to stop 'em." Bobby gave a quick nod in Claire's direction. She blushed and mouthed a silent 'Thank you,' to Bobby.  
  
"And we do know who 'built' them, Darien." Eberts stood in the office doorway, a stack of computer paper in his arms.  
  
"Eberts, report," the Official barked.  
  
"When first tasked with the assignment to ascertain the identity of the party masterminding the production of these bio-genetically engineered insects, it seemed prudent to me to begin with the one party already known to have a stake in their distribution," Eberts plopped the stack of computer paper onto the conference table between Claire and Alex and began running through the report with his index finger, "Mariposa Importers. I ran a search program designed to identify and gather information on all of Mariposa's business dealings -- including company financials, major customers and corporate personnel files -- for the past seven years. The name of one top executive in particular caught my attention: Helene Noir."  
  
"So it is Chrysalis," Darien looked as if he'd just tasted something nasty.  
  
"Where do you come by that, Fawkesy?" Hobbes inquired.  
  
"Helene Noir, Helen Black," Darien looked down at the table, "Allianora ...."  
  
"Ah," Bobby nodded, "the mermaid."  
  
Alex huffed. "You mean the woman genetically altered by Chrysalis to carry massive amounts of water in her lungs which she then used to drown her victims by kissing them? I thought she was offed by Stark after she had a fling with 'loverboy' here?"  
  
"Thanks, Alex, that's very sensitive of you to put it like that," Darien grimaced at the woman, who simply shrugged.  
  
"I just call 'em the way I see 'em, Fawkes. Nothing personal," Alex turned to face Eberts. "So Eberts, if this Helene Noir is in fact the late, great Allianora, how is it that she's still on the payroll of Mariposa Importers?"  
  
"Well, as I began to explain before Agent Fawkes interrupted me ...." Eberts paused and gave a pointed look in Darien's direction.  
  
"Would you just get on with it, *Eberts*," Bobby pushed.  
  
"Shut up, Bobby," the Official pointed a warning finger at Hobbes. "Get on with it, Eberts."  
  
Eberts gave a long-suffering sigh. "Along with the similarity between Helene Noir's name and Allianora's customary pseudonym, it did not escape my notice that the word 'Mariposa' is Spanish for butterfly, lending further credence to my hypothesis that Chrysalis was somehow involved. In the hopes of providing further confirmation, I hacked into the company's server and accessed her employee record. It seems that Ms. Noir went on corporate sabbatical almost 11 months ago -- approximately the same time as Allianora's demise. I was also able to dig up information on Mariposa's venture capital funding and it seems that Cerberus Corporation had been a major investor. And we know from Darien's brief sojourn as a double agent that Cerberus is ...."  
  
"A front for Chrysalis," Bobby finished up, earning an annoyed glare from his clerical counterpart.  
  
"So I was right. It *is* Chrysalis. All right, give it up. Who da man?" Darien received a knuckle rap from Hobbes as he rose to leave. "Do I know my nemeses or do I know my nemeses?"  
  
"You got a gift there, partner," Bobby clapped the taller man on the shoulder as he followed Darien, "But you know, I still say it could have been Arnaud, my friend ...."  
  
Alex sighed and rolled her eyes. "And to think, I was a double major in criminal justice and psychology -- all so I could take two toddlers *bug hunting*," she muttered trailing the men out the door. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------- "Look, I'm just saying that I'm hungry, OK? Is that a crime?" Darien spread his hands in a plaintive gesture to his two partners in the front of the van.  
  
"Would you give it a rest, Darien? Good God, the way you whine you'd think you were starving," Alex whinged back at him.  
  
"Hey, I *am* starving over here. I mean, Hobbes didn't even let me get breakfast this morning ...." The pout was audible in Darien's voice.  
  
"Oh, so what, now it's *my* fault," Hobbes called from the driver's seat. "Two mornings in a row I ask if you want to go get breakfast. Two mornings in a row you refuse to go anywhere *near* the friggin' bakery. This morning you wake up with the baker in your bed and it's *my* fault you didn't get breakfast ...."  
  
"Hey, hey, why do you think I needed breakfast this morning? I expended a lot of energy last night." Darien gave a smug grin and clasped his hands behind his head.  
  
"Hehehe," laughed Bobby.  
  
"Oh, I *so* don't want to hear this," Alex announced.  
  
Bobby looked at her and quirked his eyebrows, "What? What don't you want to hear?"  
  
"The boasting, the locker room talk that Fawkes has been waiting to do all day."  
  
"I am *not* boasting, Alex. I'm just explaining why I'm so hungry. And I have never indulged in locker room talk," Darien protested, "I never wanted to make the other guys feel bad, you know?" Darien huffed on his fingernails then buffed them on his orange shirt.  
  
Alex just stared at him. "Oh, I am *so* sure. Anyways, you two be good little boys and keep your lips zipped on this topic until after we're done for the day and I'm out of earshot. Then you can gloat to your heart's content over a nice late lunch at whatever strip joint you two favor."  
  
Bobby pulled the van to a stop outside Plains View Farms' front gates. "You know, Alex, I take offense at your stereotyping. Bobby Hobbes has no need to frequent striptease parlors, my friend. Bobby Hobbes has more class than that. Not to mention *plenty* of female companionship when I want it."  
  
"Yeah, that's just great, Bobby," Darien assured him, "Now can we just get Claire's bugs so I can go eat?"  
  
"Oh, I think it may be a bit more complicated than that, Darien," said Alex, as she pointed at the plume of black smoke rising from one of the fields. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------  
  
'Yup, that's an entire season's worth of one of my biggest cash crops burning there," the tall, thin man bent his silver head and spat on the ground right between his cowboy boots. "Broccolini -- biggest thing to happen in the produce market since grape tomatoes. Thirsty little critters they are too. We've spent more time and money irrigating these fields than any of the other crops. I figure that's about $30,000 for seed and water costs alone going up in smoke. Worst thing to happen since my great- granddaddy started this farm."  
  
"Look, Mr. Dunn, we're sure this is traumatic for you but we need to ask you a few questions ...."  
  
"Oh, now listen, you just call me, Teddy, little lady."  
  
"Alex," Monroe clenched her fists. "My name is Agent Alex Monroe."  
  
"Right, right, whatever you say, sweetheart. Now you all are with the Department of Agriculture, right?"  
  
Alex visibly tensed and Bobby stepped between the farmer and the female five-star. "No, sir, not exactly. We're with the Department of Fish and Game ...."  
  
"Well, I don't see what the Department of Fish and Game wants with a field of burnt vegetables, no, sir, I don't."  
  
"Uh, Teddy, right?" Darien tried his hand at getting through to the farmer. "We're, uhm, on special assignment, you know, sort of on loan to the Department of Agriculture ...."  
  
Bobby warmed up to his partner's lead-in, "Yes, sir, we're working a high priority case due to our, ahem, unique experience with this sort of threat ...."  
  
"Oh, oh, you mean you all are experts on agricultural pests like the Sharpshooter?"  
  
"Ah yeah, that's right, we're experts," Darien readily agreed. "Wait a minute, you mean you know about the Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter?"  
  
"Look, son, I told you my great-granddaddy started this farm. You think I can't tell what's wrong with my damn crops just by looking at 'em. It's the damndest thing though. I ain't never seen a Sharpshooter jump from field to field like this. Usually they stick with the citrus or if you've got grapes. They *love* them grapes. But these here, they infest one field and before you can turn around they're in the next three. Sprays don't seem to do any good and if you burn one field they just pop right back up on another at the other end of the farm. I mean they're already in my damn cucumbers. Lord only knows where they're coming from."  
  
"You know what, Teddy?" Alex coaxed, "Do you think we could see that field and maybe get a sample of those insects?"  
  
"Why sure, honey, you just hop on into my truck here and I'll be glad to take you and your two boyfriends over ...." Alex gave a tight smile, grit her teeth and followed. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
Claire slid her long-handled pincers into the sample jar and selected one of the remaining insects. With Bobby and Alex watching over either shoulder, she pinned the sample to a petri dish and carefully squeezed two drips from an eyedropper onto it.  
  
"Ah hah!," Claire cried.  
  
"What? Did you figure it out, Claire?" Darien jumped off the administering chair, his excitement overriding his better judgement as he moved closer to the insects still buzzing in the jar, as well as the long line of them pinned in the row of discarded petri dishes crowding the countertop.  
  
"Almost, I think,' the blonde scientist replied. "This formula seemed to stun the insect, but I think with the addition of just a bit of malathion, it will kill the adult and the larvae. Thankfully, the Department of Agriculture has already been researching new pesticides to deal with the ongoing threat from normal Sharpshooters," Claire swiveled in her chair to face the three agents, waving the stunned bug in their faces and driving Darien back to the safety of his administering chair. "You see, much like pharmaceutical companies are always striving to develop new forms of antibiotics as bacteria become more and more resistant to the old ones, the Department of Agriculture is constantly testing new types of chemical compounds in anticipation of insects adapting to the ones already in use. In this instance, even though this strain of Sharpshooter did not arise naturally, the research they've been undertaking has proven invaluable."  
  
Claire dropped the petri dish she'd been gesturing with and began typing a series of highly confusing chemical symbols into her computer. Bobby poked at the bug. "So that's it then? You've solved it, Keepie?"  
  
"Not exactly, Bobby. The Department of Agriculture's labs are much better equipped to test the various compounds in the large quantities that would normally be used in the farming industry. But with my notes and these samples, its scientists should be able to develop and implement a full- scale eradication program in no time at all. In fact, I've just emailed my findings so the Official can notify the Department of Agriculture to begin researching the exact formula immediately."  
  
Alex started towards the door. "I'll go let the Official know about our success. He'll be pleased ...."  
  
"Whoa, whoa, hold your horses there, Annie Oakley," Bobby followed hot on her heels. "Just exactly what makes you think *you* should be the one to let the Official know. After all I *am* the senior agent here ...." The rest of their squabble was cut off as the doors to Claire's sanctuary swished closed.  
  
"Well, I guess that's it. My work here is done," Claire quipped. She gathered up the remaining samples and crossed through the Keep's back door to the adjoining Lab 1.  
  
Darien jogged after her. "Hey wait a minute there, girly girl. There's a little something we need to discuss."  
  
"Like what?," Claire dropped the specimens onto a stainless steel tray, then opened the storage closet and removed a shipping container. "I mean, we solved the puzzle and the Official should already be notifying the Department of Agriculture who can most likely institute a spraying program for the adult insects and an inspection program to ensure that area fields are cleaned of all potentially egg-carrying cigarette butts within the week. Disaster averted; we foiled Chrysalis once again. Yay, us!" She playfully shook her fists at Darien as if they were pompoms.  
  
"How about like the fact that *I* have a date tonight. Yay, me!" He mimicked her fist shaking. "What about you?"  
  
"You have a date? Lola?" Claire laughed as Darien nodded his head vigorously at her. "That's wonderful." She popped the lid on the box, then taped the sides and addressed it in thick black marker.  
  
"Ah yeah, I think it's pretty nice myself." Darien gave a self-satisfied smirk. "'Course it was only a matter of time before my natural charm won her over."  
  
"Well, there's no accounting for taste, now, is there?" Claire grinned at him as she dropped the container into the box for outgoing deliveries and exited into the hall.  
  
"Cute. But you never answered my question," Darien reminded her as he followed her out.  
  
"Question," Claire blinked innocently. "What question?"  
  
"Don't play coy with me, missy. You know exactly what question I'm talking about. Are you going to go out with Bobby?"  
  
"Well, Darien, that's a little hard to answer seeing as he hasn't asked me out yet."  
  
"And what's the matter with your mouth? Seems to be working fine to me."  
  
"You expect *me* to ask *him* out?" She blinked at him.  
  
"What, are you still living in the dark ages? It's the 21st century, Claire, a chick can ask a dude out, you know."  
  
Claire gave a frustrated sigh. "Did he put you up to this? Did he tell you to come here and ...."  
  
"No, no, no," Darien waved his hand at her. "Bobby has no idea that I'm here and if he did, he'd kick my ass and you know it."  
  
"Well then, I guess the only thing standing between you and a severe ass kicking is me, huh?" she smiled sweetly at Darien. "And the best way to ensure that I keep my mouth shut, is to keep yours shut."  
  
Darien stared at her. "You know, I always knew you were devious, Claire, but that ... that's just ... *evil*."  
  
"Yes, I know," she stated proudly.  
  
"Man, you been hanging out with the 'Fish too long," Darien noted. "Hey, why don't you come out to lunch?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, it's kind of late for lunch and I've got a *ton* of work to do ...."  
  
"C'mon, you know you want to," Darien cooed to her. "Bobby's gonna be there ...."  
  
"Darien, I thought you were going to stop *that*."  
  
"Well, OK," Darien said off-handedly. "I guess Alex is gonna be the only girl again."  
  
"Alex." Claire stopped in her tracks just outside the ladies' room door. She grabbed Darien's arm and turned him to her. "Alex is going and so is Bobby?"  
  
"Yeah, we're going to the Sea Shack. Apparently they both love lobster. Could you please let go of my arm? You're stopping the blood flow."  
  
"Oh, I just bet she does," Claire released Darien and started jogging back towards the Keep. "Let me just grab my purse. I'll meet you all out in the parking lot in three minutes."  
  
Through the closing doors of the elevator, Darien watched her retreating form as she entered the Keep. A moment later he was stepping out onto the main floor when he ran into Alex. "Hey, Alex. You wanna go to lunch ...?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The great French statesman, George Clemenceau, once wrote, "A man's life is interesting primarily when he has failed -- I well know." And yeah, I do know about that. But 'ole George had a follow-up to that statement on failure, "For it is a sign that he tried to surpass himself." I think maybe now it's time for me to learn that part of the equation. Sure, maybe I'll lose the girl and get my ass kicked by the bad guys yet again. But hey, at least I can say I tried, and in the end, isn't that the real measure of a man?  
  
### 


	4. Part 3 NC17

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THIS VERSION OF CHAPTER 3 CARRIES AN NC-17 RATING. SO IF YOU'RE UNDERAGE OR DON'T CARE TO INDULGE, PLEASE READ THE ALTERNATE PG-13 VERSION,, WHICH IS CONTAINED IN THE CHAPTER IMMEDIATELY PRECEDING.  
  
There's an old Cuban ballad from the '30s that laments: "Lost are the dreams of my deluded youth/dreams I fulfilled with overwhelming passion." When I was younger, I was a thief. Now I always thought I was in it for the money, but the truth I've learned isn't quite that simple. I was in it for the thrill of the chase, the high of getting away with something I shouldn't have. Of course, the problem was that I didn't always get away with it, which is how I ended up with a gland in my head working for the Agency. But there are times, like tonight for instance, when I get that same shiver down my back and I can almost convince myself that I'm casing a joint and not just working a case. Now Hobbes would say there's a world of difference between the two as measured by that thin grey line he refuses to cross. But hey, for the excitement junkie in me, a fix is a fix, right? **************************************************************************** **********************************  
  
Darien surveyed himself in the full-length mirror next to his bed: tight black jeans, check. Form-fitting, black, button-down shirt, check. Chunky soled black shoes, check. Black leather jacket, check. He primped his hair. Oh yeah, he looked good. After having the style disparity between himself and his partner practically shoved in his face in the van this morning, he was out to prove he could hold his own in the fashion arena next to the always-so-nattily-attired Bobby Hobbes. And if there was one thing he did well, it was black. 'Sides, black was, after all, the color of choice for his former profession and he could feel in his bones that those thieving skills were going to come in handy before the evening was over.  
  
Grabbing his keys from off the kitchen counter, he whirled, gave himself one last head-to-toe check in his mirror and exited his apartment. Going down the stairs he passed Mrs. Madison, the old lady who lived on the floor below him. When she mentioned how nice he smelled, he groaned inwardly. Maybe he shouldn't have used so much of that cologne he'd found lurking in the back of his bathroom cabinet. He could just imagine 'ole bloodhound Bobby Hobbes sniffing around him for the rest of the evening and regaling them with tales of his olfactory exploits. Oh well, nothing he could do about it now. He shrugged, mostly to himself, gave Mrs. Madison a parting wave over his shoulder and exited the building.  
  
"Hey, Alex," he called out as he caught sight of the female five-star double checking the locks on all the doors of her black Corvette.  
  
"Dammit, Darien, why can't you live in a decent section of town like a normal person?" Monroe groused, "I'll be lucky if they leave me the floor mats when I get back." She left the car and came to stand in front of the building with Darien.  
  
Monroe was wearing a slinky red halter dress with a full skirt just made for twirling on the dance floor. Her hair was pulled up into a French twist with the ends peeking out at the top for a jaunty fringe. Delicate red beaded earrings accentuated the curve of her slender neck and on her feet were tiny, ankle-strap sandals with stiletto heels. If not for the smirk on her face, Darien thought, she'd be a knockout. "Hey, Alex, nice threads," he complimented. "You look like a million bucks."  
  
Alex's face went blank at the sudden compliment. She knit her brows together and stuttered out, "Why thank you, Darien. You look nice too." Then a small smile tugged at her lips and for a moment she *was* a knockout. "So who dressed you?" She full out grinned at him and he began to think that maybe Hobbes' "No Fishing" policy was a very good one to have indeed.  
  
"Well, thank you, Ms. Versace," he laughed, throwing a friendly arm around her shoulder. After all, it wouldn't hurt to let his homeys see him with his arm around a beautiful chick. "I'll have you know that I put this ensemble together myself. Besides, it doesn't matter what I look like -- I'm the Invisible Man, remember?"  
  
"Yah, and judging from some of the get-ups I've seen you in, that's usually a *good* thing."  
  
"Nice, very nice, Alex. There goes that bonding moment."  
  
"And here comes Hobbes. Let's get to him before he parks the van ...." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------  
  
Darien heard the pounding beat of the music at the La Bamba social club from almost half a block away. He and his two partners were walking -- Bobby and Alex arm-in-arm, no less -- from where they'd parked Golda, when the muffled din of the Latin dance music floated out to them. Darien took a look around at the neighborhood -- nothing but old factories, warehouses and dark alleys. La Bamba was just a small, grey cinderblock structure that had probably been the original office complex for the warehouse it fronted.  
  
"And she was complaining about parking her car at my place," Darien muttered to no one in particular. "Hey, Monroe, aren't you glad we didn't decide to just meet you here?"  
  
"Fine, Fawkes, this place makes your neighborhood look like the Taj Mahal, are you happy? Can we please just get on with this? Believe it or not, I have better things to do with my time than hang out with the two of you in some immigrant dance dive."  
  
Hobbes turned his head toward Alex, "Like what?"  
  
"What?" Alex stared back at him.  
  
"Like what? I mean, you're always going on about how you have so many better things to do than be with us, I'm just wondering what some of them are. 'Cuz you *never* tell us anything about 'em ...."  
  
"Yeah," Darien cut in, "that's a good question, Hobbes. What does she do in her spare time?"  
  
"Why thank you, partner," Bobby held out his hand for Darien's low-five. "I thought it was a good one, myself."  
  
"You know what, boys, I am so not playing this game ...."  
  
"Fine, Alex, you don't want to tell us," Darien wheedled, "we'll just have to make it up ourselves. What do you think, Hobbes? Cocktail waitress?"  
  
Hobbes looked Alex up and down, "Nah, too scrawny to fill out the costume. Uhm, supermarket checkout girl?"  
  
Darien started to nod his head when Monroe let out an exasperated sigh and stopped in her tracks. "Fine, you two want to know what I do in my down time. I'm a Big Sister."  
  
"What? You're a *nun*?" Hobbes was incredulous. Monroe closed her eyes, crossed her arms and started tapping her foot, steam almost visibly rising from her ears.  
  
Darien hurriedly clarified before Monroe could explode, "Uh, no, Bobby, I think what she means is Big Sister like in folks who work with underprivileged children."  
  
"That's right, Darien, when I'm not wasting my time dickering with you two dimwits," she gestured elegantly at the two men beside her, "I spend time with my Little Sister, Eshante. She lives in the projects with her mom and two brothers."  
  
"Li'l sis, big sis, huh, Alex? That's really nice actually. You know I should look into spending some of my time mentoring a growing boy to manhood," Bobby mused.  
  
"Yeah, really nice," Darien echoed. "It is a little weird thinking about you doing chick things with her though."  
  
"Darien, I am a girl, remember? And I love to do 'chick' things, as you so eloquently put it," she noted, "like shopping for clothes, eating ice cream, taking Tae Kwon Do, picking out your first pearl-handled sidearm ...."  
  
Darien whistled low through his teeth, then grabbed Alex's other arm and started the pair walking towards the club again. "Oh yeah, you enjoy being a girl," he mumbled sotto voce.  
  
Another quarter block from the club's entrance the line started, a mix of darkly handsome men and vibrantly attired Latin beauties. Maneuvering around the queue, the three agents marched straight up to the bouncer guarding the door. Almost as tall as Darien and certainly heftier, the man took one look at the trio, stopping to take in Monroe from head to toe, and announced, "Sorry. The club's full. Nobody gets in unless their name is on the list. And you guys don't look like your name is on this list."  
  
"Oh, you don't think our name is on the list, huh?" Bobby asked rhetorically, then slipped something into the bouncer's hand. "Well, why don't you just check? Name's Franklin, Benjamin Franklin."  
  
The bouncer pocketed Bobby's donation as he made a show of checking his list. "Ah, Mr. Franklin, why yes, here you are." The bouncer removed the velvet rope and waved them past the crowd. Amid the displeased hoots and catcalls following them through the dim club entrance, Darien could hear Bobby mutter, "Eberts better reimburse me for that, receipt or no receipt," and then they were in.  
  
Entering the club was almost like entering a sauna. The music was hot and so was the crowd, the smell of sweat and alcohol almost overpowering. The sound was ubiquitous, the insistent beat making conversation near impossible.  
  
"Jeez, this place is *packed*," Darien yelled to his two partners.  
  
"Yeah, way past the legal limit," Hobbes observed, taking in the room and its occupants in one rapid pan. "And what do you want to bet all the emergency exits are locked. I'm tempted to just shut them down right now ..."  
  
"We'll have time enough later to play fire marshal, Hobbes," Monroe observed dryly. "For now, let's just stick to the case at hand and find out where Amarillo is." She gestured towards a dim corner where there was an empty table strewn with discarded cocktail glasses.  
  
Threading their way through the crowd, they arrived at the tiny haven after a circuitous route around the dance floor. Thankfully, the music in their little corner was slightly muffled so they could carry on their conversations without shouting. Sitting down, Bobby waved a waitress over and ordered them all a round of drinks.  
  
"If you ask me, it's those frozen machines they have that make it," he mused playing with the cerise globe speared by a Day-Glo orange umbrella in his pina colada.  
  
Darien took a pull on his draft, "Yeah, well nobody asked you. What I want to know is how are we gonna ID Amarillo in this crowd?"  
  
"Easy," Alex said putting down her Cosmopolitan. "You just look for ..."  
  
"...The guy those two big mooks over by the bar are playing bodyguard for," Bobby chimed in.  
  
"Exactly," Alex nodded, clinking glasses with Bobby in a salute.  
  
While the other two agents kept the goons in sight, Darien surveyed his surroundings with a veteran thief's eye. The place was jammed and Bobby was probably right, all the exits were most likely locked to discourage anyone from trying to sneak in. So the only way out that he could see was through the front -- not the best choice for a quick get-away. Then Darien noticed people emerging around the corner from where he stood and from what looked like it should be a plain wall. Not too many, just a couple of waitresses, but what really caught his attention was that every once in a while another shark-suited goon would come out and relieve one of the two standing by the bar.  
  
"Ah, guys, I think I'm gonna go visit the little boys room," Darien excused himself and left the table, making sure to check out that magical wall as he sauntered over to the lounges. Sure enough, there was a halo of light in the shape of a door almost all the way over to the right, next to some very large, very fake tropical plants. Rather than making a pit stop, Darien cruised his way around the bar area, circling back as quickly as he could to his fellow agents. "Ah guys," he said, "I think I found the rabbit hole to Wonderland."  
  
"What do you got, Fawkes?" Bobby's ears immediately perked up, while his eyes never left his surveillance targets.  
  
'"There's a hidden door along that back wall, all the way down by the potted plants. It seems to be emitting a steady stream of our friends over by the bar there ...."  
  
"Ah the 'ole door-in-the-wall routine, huh?" Bobby turned his gaze from the goons at the bar just long enough to give Darien a quick slap on the back.  
  
"Guys, guys, I think we've got movement," Alex alerted them, placing a hand on Bobby's arm to draw the older agent's attention. The three watched as the two goons broke from the bar and slithered over to flank an elegant figure who had just risen from a large group at a corner table across the club from them. The man was tall, possibly an inch or two taller than Darien, with close-cropped, wavy dark hair and a bronze profile reminiscent of Incan carvings. His suit was raw silk, obviously handmade, its coffee shimmer set off by a deep umber silk shirt and matching tie. He wore no jewelry except for two small gold hoops in his ears and a sleek Movado Museum watch.  
  
Alex was up out of her chair and on an intercept course before Amarillo was even half way across the club. 'Mr. Amarillo," she called out. "My name is Alex Monroe. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."  
  
Amarillo beamed down at Alex, his smile dimming slightly as Darien and Hobbes came up behind her. "And to what, beautiful lady, do I owe this pleasure?" His voice was low, fluid and with only a trace of an accent to add to its lilt.  
  
"Well, Mr. Amarillo, it seems your reputation precedes you," Alex fawned. "We were told you were just the person who could help us expand our line of business ...."  
  
"And what business would that be?" Amarillo asked carefully, narrowing his eyes and adjusting his tie.  
  
"You know, we're a couple of independent business men, like yourself," Hobbes began to spin one of his impromptu cover stories.  
  
"Yeah, uh, we're businessmen, who, you know, are independent ...," Darien tried to improvise, but was cut short by Alex driving one of her stiletto heels into his right foot. "Ouch!" He turned to glare down at her tiny figure. "What'd you do that for?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see your foot there," Alex smiled widely at the club owner and slid her arm into the crook of his elbow. "What my two gentlemen friends are trying to say is that we own a chain of convenience stores up in the L.A. area. We're looking to expand our market to cater more towards the Hispanic population. Word on the street is that you specialize in importing Latin American goods ...." Arms still linked they sauntered over to the door Darien had seen Amarillo's henchmen emerge from earlier.  
  
"Yeah, particularly cigarettes, ya know? 'Tres Gatos Negros,' say? I'd love to see the profit margin on those babies," Hobbes enthused, "particularly if we could, ah, forgo the 'customary' red tape, if you catch my drift."  
  
At Bobby's mention of the South American cigarettes, Amarillo's face turned stony. "No, I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean. I import many items so that my fellow immigrants, "he gestured widely at the mob thronging the club, "can have at least a small taste of their home to comfort them in this new country. But these cigarettes you mention, 'Tres Gatos Negros,' was it? Of these I know nothing. And now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he gave a slight nod towards Alex, "my lady, I have a business to run. Good night." With a last nod towards Alex, Amarillo stepped quickly through the door and was gone.  
  
"Nice going, Hobbes. I had him all softened up and then you go and practically accuse him to his face. If you'd just held off on 'The Shield' routine for a few minutes, I might have been able to get Amarillo to spill the beans." Alex sighed and preened at her dress. "Now all we're left with," she threw a disgusted look in Darien's direction, "is *him*. God help us all."  
  
"Oh, gee, thanks for the vote of confidence there, missy," Darien deadpanned.  
  
"Alright, alright, enough with the whining or we don't stop for ice cream on the way home there, kiddies. Capish?" Bobby quickly scanned the perimeter of the club, then gave the dance floor a summary glance. "Alright, Plan B: You," he pointed at Darien, "go cellophane, then slip in back and try to get the goods. We'll provide the distraction. Meet us at the van in 15 minutes. You," he pointed at Monroe, "with me, on the dance floor now."  
  
Darien watched Hobbes steer Alex straight to the middle of the teeming dance floor. As the exuberant beat of the next song began to pound, the two agents expertly executed the intricate, sensual steps of the rumba ... or was it the mambo ... certainly it wasn't the tango. Darien shook his head. He had no idea what dance Bobby and Alex were doing nor where they'd learned to dance like that, but they must have been doing something right. The previously inchoate crowd gathered in a circle around the dance floor watching the two agents and cheering them on with hoots and whistles. Darien used the distraction to step into a darkened corner and let the Quicksilver coat his rangy limbs.  
  
Passing unseen by Amarillo's two henchmen, he followed a trim waitress with a sheaf of long, fiery red curls carrying a glass of what looked to be straight rum through the side door. He paused for a moment to admire her pert rear view barely covered by her tiny black dress, when she entered another door to the left. From inside the room, Darien could hear Amarillo take the drink and greet the girl as "Cara mia" -- apparently that was his office, as well as his favorite drink and main squeeze.  
  
So, it looked like ole Jorge was gonna be getting busy for while. 'All the better for me to snoop around then, my dear,' Darien paraphrased the Brothers Grimm in his head. The hall was long, but with few doors on either side. Making his way down the hall, he stopped and listened at each, cracking them open and peering inside quickly. Once he had to spring back as someone in the room jumped up and slammed the door shut. Darien had just enough time, though, to catch a glimpse of money -- lots of money -- loose on long tables, as well as in neat stacks. He made a mental note of that room's location and continued down to the last door at the end of the hall.  
  
The noise coming from behind that door had a different ring to it -- more of an echo and more industrial in nature. Darien slipped through the door and entered a huge storehouse chockablock with Malta-brand beverages, Salma spices and other Hispanic household items. Wandering through the warren of floor-to-ceiling palettes, Darien came out onto the loading dock where bins of fresh calabaza squash and plantains were being disgorged from tractor- trailers. More out of habit than any real worry about Quicksilver madness -- though he still had trouble believing that particular torture was truly gone from his life -- Darien stopped the Quicksilver flow, hid behind a bin, and watched as crate after crate of produce came off the trucks.  
  
The workers, all clearly immigrants and all clearly non-union, began cracking open the crates and tossing the produce into the appropriate bins. Darien wondered briefly why they didn't just leave the fruits and vegetables in their shipping crates, when the answer to his question suddenly appeared. Halfway through a crate full of green plantains, one of the workers pulled out an oversized carton wrapped in brown paper. He set it aside and finished emptying the crate. In the meantime, his co-workers were all pulling similar packages from their produce containers.  
  
When they were finished, the workers went back for more crates to empty, while the foreman gathered up the brown packages. Creeping through the shadows, Darien followed him as he made his way into the interior of the warehouse. When the foreman stopped near the far wall, Darien could see cartons upon cartons of "Tres Gatos Negros" climbing up towards the ceiling. The foreman knelt to open the packages he'd carried back. Staying behind him and out of his line of sight, Darien surreptitiously leaned forward to try and get a better look to confirm what he suspected those packages contained.  
  
What Darien hadn't counted on was that since he was still visible he cast a shadow over the man and the packages. At the sudden change in his lighting, the foreman turned and caught Darien in the chin with a right hook. Darien staggered back, then took off down the maze of shipping palettes, the foreman hot on his heels and calling to his companions for help. Darien had almost made it to the hall door when a sumo wrestler of a man blocked his path. He had just enough time to mutter, "Oh crap," before the sumo knocked him on his ass with one good roundhouse punch. By then, the foreman had caught up and began viciously kicking Darien in the stomach when he tried to get up. The other workers joined in and it became a free for all. He lay on the floor and took the beating for a bit -- it wasn't like it was his first after all and more than likely wouldn't be his last -- then when the crowd was so thick they could barely tell who was hitting whom, he rolled away, sliding under one of the stacks of industrial shelving.  
  
In the minute or so it took for the workers to realize their victim had escaped, Darien Quicksilvered and slipped out from under the shelves. Retracing his steps back to the far wall, he grabbed one of the brown packages, shielding it from sight as well. Then he made his way out to the loading dock, carefully avoiding any near misses with the bustling workers who were now searching for him, and jumped down into the alley. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------  
  
Hobbes and Monroe were waiting at the van when Darien arrived, Bobby pacing back and forth while Alex leaned against Golda's side, her arms and legs crossed. Darien got a nice little jolt of satisfaction as they both jumped when he magically appeared in front of them. That was quickly replaced with annoyance as Bobby took one look at him and began fishing in his back pants pocket for his wallet.  
  
"So you got your ass kicked again, huh?" the older agent asked.  
  
"Told you so," Alex crowed as she held her palm out to receive Bobby's $20 bill.  
  
"Oh great, I'm so glad my getting the crap kicked out of me proved profitable for one of you," Darien whinged. "And oh, by the way, while you two were so busy dancing up a storm and wagering over my well being, I happened to have been gathering the necessary evidence to solve this case." He proudly held up the mysterious brown package. "The produce containers Amarillo is importing are full of these and I'm betting that when we remove the plain brown wrapper, it ain't gonna be stacks of 'Penthouse' inside."  
  
"Ha ha, good work, partner!" Bobby slapped Darien on the back, then held out his hand to Alex who slapped the $20 bill back into it. "Told you so," he mimicked.  
  
Darien winced, "Nice, thanks, Bobby."  
  
"So what you're saying, Fawkes, is that not only did you alert them to your presence there, you took one of these packages so that now they know *exactly* what the focus of our investigation is?" Unlike Bobby, Alex looked decidedly unpleased.  
  
"Oh and what would you have done, Alex?"  
  
"How about stay invisible the whole time, observe the operation, then report back to my fellow agents so we could catch them red-handed?"  
  
"You forget, we've got them red-handed," Darien haughtily corrected, pointing to the contents of the package Bobby had now opened. "See, chock full of 'Tres Gatos Negros,' all amazingly tax-stamp free. That's proof positive right there, Suzy."  
  
"Yeah," Alex countered, "And all completely inadmissible as evidence since we didn't have a warrant to go in and get it." She gave him a terse smile worthy of a crocodile.  
  
"Hey, what can I say, I'm a thief," Darien held out his hands in a plaintive gesture, "I'm used to having to worry about *avoiding* warrants, not getting them. So what now?"  
  
"He's got a point there, Alex," Bobby chimed in. "His experience with criminal activities does come from a unique perspective, law-enforcement wise. Besides, we got the goods, give me 15 minutes alone with Amarillo and he'll be ready to confess."  
  
"Great that's all we need to do -- add brutality to warrantless search and seizure. Hey, why don't we just force him to change his religion and violate all his rights at once?" Alex let out a delicate snort. "Don't you two worry your pretty little heads about this anymore, *I'll* take care of it." She pulled her cellphone from her bag and hit speed dial. "Yeah, Monroe here. We need an arrest team on site at Grape and Columbia pronto. And call Judge Hanover and tell him I need a warrant to search the same premises retroactive to oh, say, an hour ago. Good. Yeah, tell the team to report to me, I'll be here when they arrive. Thanks."  
  
"So what, that's it? Just like that, you make a phone call and poof we've got a take-down team and a retroactive warrant on the way?" Bobby was flabbergasted.  
  
"Yes, Hobbes, just like that," Alex stood up taller and raised her chin at him. "I've told you before. It's all about relationships."  
  
"Yeah, well, you can kiss my relationships there, sister, if you think I'm gonna let you waltz away with this collar ...."  
  
Darien grabbed his side and groaned. "Hey, guys, you know what? If you don't need me anymore, you think I could just go home and die now"  
  
"What, partner, are you OK? Is it really bad? Do you need me to take you to the Keep?" Bobby burst into full mother-hen mode.  
  
"No, man, no, I'm OK. I've had worse believe me. But I do think it would be a good thing for me to get horizontal for a while."  
  
"That's fine, Darien," Alex said. "You'd only get in the way now anyhow. Bobby, you gonna drive him home?"  
  
Bobby looked from Alex to Darien then back again, his lips working but with nothing coming out of his mouth. "That's OK, man," Darien decided to take pity on his partner, "I'll just catch a cab back to my place. You can fill me in on all the juicy bits in the morning, alright?"  
  
"Well, alright, but you're sure you're OK, you don't need me to get the Keep for you?" Bobby still looked concerned, but definitely relieved that he'd been spared the Sophie's choice of deciding between taking Darien home and partaking in Amarillo's upcoming arrest and interrogation.  
  
"I'm sure I'm sure, man," Darien half laughed as he borrowed one of Hobbes' favorite phrases. "But hey, I'm tapped. Could you lend me 20 bucks for the cab?"  
  
Bobby handed the $20 he'd received from Monroe to a triumphantly beaming Darien. "Good, kid, go home and get some sleep. We'll be picking you up at 6:45 sharp in the morning. Gonna be a lotta paperwork to file on this one ...." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------  
  
The yellow cab disgorged Darien in front of Poncho's Taco Shop about 15 minutes later. Stepping up to the counter, he ordered an apres-club snack of two chicken tacos and a pork tostada with a side of guacamole.  
  
Swinging the white paper sack along at his side, he hummed the addictive melody of Marc Anthony's "I Need to Know" as he sauntered along to his building. His surprise when he got there almost sent the bag -- and his supper -- sailing. Sitting on his front stoop and kicking her crossed legs carelessly was Lola. A black jersey dress sprinkled with poppies all over wrapped her diminutive figure. Large red flowers on the front of her platform shoes repeated the theme, their petals flopping to and fro as her feet bounced impatiently. "It's about time you showed," she said looking up at him, then frowning at the scuff marks on his face. "Guess the date didn't go so well, huh?"  
  
Darien rubbed a hand across his face. "Uh, no ... I mean, it was a fight ... I mean, it wasn't a date." He held his hand out to help her to her feet. "I mean, do you want to come up?"  
  
She took his hand and stood, then bent down and retrieved a white bakery box and a smaller version of what he had come to know as "the duffle of death" from their brief road trip together. "Do you ever meet anybody you don't piss off?" She cocked her head at him.  
  
He gave her a wry grin. "Ah, very rarely." He mounted the steps and opened the door, then waited for her to go through first. Following her up the stairs, he studied her rump thoughtfully. "Hey, how'd you find out where I lived anyway?"  
  
"A little bird told me." She stopped at the top of the stairs and he put a hand on her shoulder and steered her to his abode.  
  
"Oh, really. And would this bird have a name?" Darien already had his suspicions that this bird was a short, dark, balding one known as Hobbes. He reached over her to put his key in his lock.  
  
"He might, but then again, I really don't think you want to bring up the topic of names with me, Ray." He grimaced at the jibe while he swung the door open, mentally began plotting Bobby's death, and then followed her into his apartment. Looking around for just a moment, she made a beeline for his kitchen counter and deposited the bakery box. He put his sack from Poncho's next to it, then hustled over to the living room, grabbed an armful of the leftover Chinese food cartons and empty beer bottles he and Bobby had shared two nights earlier and dumped them on the counter. "Uh, sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting company," he scrubbed his hands through his hair.  
  
She raised her eyebrows at him, "Looks to me like you've already had it."  
  
"What? Oh no, no. That was just Hobbes and me chowing down and watching some movies," Darien looked down at her with soulful eyes under long lashes. "So, ah, whatchya got in the package?"  
  
She pointed to the Poncho's sack. "Well, now, I wouldn't want to spoil your dinner ...."  
  
"Hehehe, you know what they say," he halfway grinned at her, "'Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.'"  
  
She laughed and grabbed a small utility knife from the block sitting on his counter. "You know, if more people thought like you, I'd be a rich woman." She cut the string on the box and pushed it towards him.  
  
The earthy smell of cinnamon and sugar wafted up and he shoved his hand in the box. "Oatmeal cookies!" he crowed, waving one around triumphantly. "How'd you know they're my favorite?"  
  
"A little bird told me." She began fishing around in the oversized satchel, which was apparently her purse.  
  
He snorted as he chewed his cookie. "Let me guess, the same little birdie that told you where I lived."  
  
Still struggling to retrieve something from her bag, she replied, "No, another little birdie. You wouldn't believe what someone will tell you when you hold their daily allotment of cherry-cinnamon jumbles hostage."  
  
"Eberts," Darien muttered. He was going to strangle the little weasel right after he finished with Bobby, then thought perhaps he'd better kill Eberts first. Bobby was definitely going to be the tougher nut.  
  
Lola finally straightened and slapped something onto Darien's counter. "Actually you'd be surprised by how much I know about you now."  
  
Darien took one look at the familiar manila folder and immediately put Bobby back at the top of his list of people to kill. "You shouldn't have that," he got up and automatically checked out the windows. "It's not safe for you ...."  
  
Lola blinked at him from across the room, then furrowed her brows. "It's OK. He told me it was 'unclassified.'"  
  
"Even so, it's still not safe," he came back to the counter, snatched the file and shoved it in a drawer as if that might keep it safe from prying eyes. "People might not know that it wasn't classified and if they thought you knew something ...." He reached out and put a hand on her cheek. "I don't want to think what might happen."  
  
"I'm alright, Ray," she took his hand from her cheek, "besides, it looks like you're the one that something's happened to." Dropping his hand, she took a kitchen towel and began wiping at the bruises on Darien's face. "Do you have any Bacitracin and some Band-Aids?"  
  
"Ah, yah, in the bathroom cabinet." Darien moved towards the bathroom but she caught his arm.  
  
"No, no, you sit, I'll get them."  
  
Darien took her advice gladly, seating himself on his couch. Emerging from his bathroom with her supplies, she set to work putting ointment on his bruises and bandaging the worst of them. "So," he said, "I thought you never wanted to see me again."  
  
"I never said that," she surveyed his face, tilting her head from one side or another.  
  
"You said you wanted me to stay the hell away from you ...," he grimaced as she swiped some ointment on a newly found scrape.  
  
"And I meant it." She nodded in satisfaction at her handiwork, then returned to the bathroom to put the Bacitracin and Band-Aids back in his medicine chest.  
  
"So if you meant it, then why are you here? Not, not that I'm not glad that you are here, Lo, hell, I'm ecstatic you're here ...."  
  
She came to stand before him with her hands on her hips and let out a sigh. "You know, Ray, I really did mean it -- at the time. It was just that I was so damn angry, angry with you, angry with myself," she threw her hands out, turned around and paced over to Darien's pool table. "Yes, you lied to me, but I *knew*. I'm not stupid; I've been lied to enough times by men that I should have seen it coming. Hell, I've got two failed relationships and a broken marriage to attest to that fact," she sighed, ran a hand through her hair. "I told you I had lousy taste in men. But you were so goofy and so charming, I guess I just wanted to believe in the fairytale for a little while. And when it all came crashing down it was much easier to blame you than to blame myself."  
  
Darien rose from the couch and came to stand behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said gently, "You know, I once heard someone rather wise say, 'Don't hide your love behind your anger.'"  
  
She turned to face him. "Is that what you think this is, then, 'love'?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, I really don't," Darien shook his head. "Love just seems an easy way of phrasing it. I don't claim to be an expert on love. I don't exactly have a sterling track record in that department either. I mean, let's face it, from a romantic standpoint, we're a train wreck waiting to happen ...."  
  
"But still ...," she said softly and put her arms on his shoulders.  
  
He pulled her into his arms, stooping down and touching his forehead to hers. "But still ...," he echoed, then captured her mouth in a series of shy, soft, searching kisses.  
  
When they finished, she tucked her head under his chin, rested her cheek on his shoulder and just stood silent for a few moments. Finally she stepped away and gave a deep exhale. She tilted her head up and looked him straight in the eye. "All right, then, here's the deal," she began, "Let's just take this day by day and see where it leads us. No strings, no lies, no promises we're not going to be able to keep. And if one of us wants to walk away, then that's it, we walk away, no questions asked. Deal?" She held out her hand for his handshake.  
  
"Uh, yah, but look, I just want you to know ... about what, ah, happened in the car ... on the way home from Sacramento ...."  
  
"It's alright, you don't need to explain -- I saw the marks on your arm -- the important thing is that you're trying to beat it ...."  
  
"No, no, it's not ... it *wasn't* what it looked like. More importantly it's not going to happen again, that I can *promise* you. But about the 'no lies' thing ... ah, there are some things about me, about my work, that I just can't tell you, Lo, that I may *never* be able to tell you ...."  
  
She held up her hands to stop his stream of words. "I understand, truly I do. Heck, I know more about your work after being handcuffed and locked in that damn padded room than I ever wanted to know. I don't want you to tell me things you can't, all I'm asking is that you just don't lie to me. Just tell me you can't tell me, OK?"  
  
"OK."  
  
She put her out her hand again. "Well, then, do we have a deal?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," he grabbed her wrist and tugged her quickly into his chest. He put his head down, nuzzled her ear and whispered, "Did I happen to mention how hot you looked in those handcuffs?"  
  
"No," she drawled, "but I must say, those accounts of your prison stays in your file did give me some lovely mental images...."  
  
"Careful, Miss Gerot, or you're gonna get a spanking," he wagged his finger and glared at her playfully.  
  
"Why, Ray, I didn't realize you had a *kinky* streak," she giggled.  
  
He slid behind her, skimming his hands from her shoulders over her breasts, belly, hips, down under her hem. "What did you call me?" he asked lightly stroking her thigh in upward circles with one hand.  
  
"Ray," she replied, her response drowsy with desire. He swatted her bottom sharply with his other hand, and she yelped in surprise, "Ray!" He swatted her again. "What's my name?" he demanded, fingers still moving on her leg.  
  
"Uh, Darien?" she asked hesitantly. His fingers moved to her clit, stroking her for a second through her panties, then skipped back to their earlier home. She moaned in disappointment and reached down, trying to guide his hand back to her sensitive spot.  
  
"What's my name?" he purred in her ear, still tickling her thigh.  
  
"Darien, oooh...."she cried out when he reached beneath her thong and ran his fingers along her folds, pressing in on her clit and dragging it down. "Uhm, Darien...," she moaned as he continued to stroke her. She reached back and twined her arms around his neck when he moved his free hand up to pluck at her nipples.  
  
"That's right," he breathed against her neck. "You're a fast learner, you know that?" He kissed his way down her neck then licked back up to her ear. "What's my name?"  
  
"Darien ... Darien ..." she repeated, each time rewarded with renewed stroking on his part. Soon she was chanting it, moving her hips in rhythm with his fingers as he slipped them in and out of her.  
  
"That's it, baby, say my name," he gasped. His own arousal was approaching serious proportions, egged on by the movement of her backside as she writhed in time to his handiwork. If she didn't peak soon, he was going to cum in his pants just from the friction. He didn't want it to end so soon though. He wanted to make this night last forever, stretch each moment out for an eternity, hold each second suspended in silken sensuality.  
  
"Cum for me," he coached her. He lifted the back of her hair, licked the nape of her neck, then bit her lightly there as he pressed down hard on her clit one last time.  
  
"Dar-i-en!" she screamed, then leaned limply against his chest like a drunkard against a lamp post. As he picked her up and carried her over to the bed on invisible legs, he gave a silent prayer that satisfaction had apparently killed the curiosity in this cat. She was practically purring as he laid her on the bed, eagerly sliding out of her clothes as he kissed them off of her, following the path of his fingers on her flesh with his lips and tongue.  
  
By the time she was aware enough to start concentrating on him, his legs had returned and he happily let her return his attentions, kicking off his shoes and socks before diving onto the bed.  
  
"Ooooh, anxious are we?" she laughed as she pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it carelessly aside. She kissed under his jaw and over his shoulders before dropping her head to flick at his nipples.  
  
He let out a contented little sigh. "For more of you? Always."  
  
"Such a charmer," she mused, running her hands down his sides, then stopped when he winced as she hit the beginnings a large multi-colored bruise on his left side. "Oh, God, are you alright?" She looked up at him, desire fighting with alarm in her face.  
  
He smiled down at her. "Yeah, occupational hazard, you know?" He sighed wistfully. "Don't worry, I'm used to it. And please don't let it stop you ...." A sharp intake of breath on his part marked her return to her explorations.  
  
She tongued her way down his torso, taking a moment to press some small soft kisses over the discoloration, then letting her fingers hover in delicious agony over his fly. She opened his button and lapped at the small bit of skin bared there. Darien watched soundlessly, eyes black with desire, as she slowly slid the zipper down. Reaching inside, she lightly stroked the length of his hard-on, causing him to suck in his teeth. Tapping her fingertips lightly along his shaft, she mused, "Now then, where are those handcuffs?"  
  
"Oh, God, please. Don't tease me," he begged hoarsely, grabbing her hands. "I want you *now*." He leaned up and kissed her, holding her still with one hand as he thrust his tongue deeply into her mouth.  
  
When he'd finished, she demanded playfully, "Handcuffs, my dear?" She squawked in surprise as he used his free hand to snap the pair he'd surreptitiously snatched from his bedside drawer on her wrists.  
  
"Well, now, if you insist." He left her sitting on her heels and staring mutely at him as he slid off the bed and slipped out of his pants and underwear. Returning to kneel so close in front of her that their knees touched, he whispered in her ear, "If you don't want them, all you have to do is just say so, you know."  
  
In answer, she leaned down with her shackled wrists in front of her for balance and slurped at the head of his cock hungrily. As she bent to lick his balls, her hair tickled his shaft, the friction of its dark silk on his skin almost unbearable.  
  
He tumbled down on the bed, struggling to retain control despite the overwhelming sensations. "Please, Lo," he choked out, pulling her up to straddle him. She sank onto him, leaning forward, this time thrusting her tongue into his mouth and resting the palms of her tiny hands over his heart. They moved together, locked at lips and hips, until they broke the kiss, panting and nipping at each other. And so they continued in rhythmic frenzy, her cries and his grunts of pleasure occasionally punctuated by a sharp slap as he swatted her ass, urging her to ride him harder. Just before he reached the edge, he pulled her to him for one last deep kiss and dropped a free hand to the rug beneath his bed. They came together, screaming into each other's mouths, the quicksilver spilling out of his lowered hand and turning the rug's sisal to cellophane.  
  
When they'd quieted, he rolled them over onto their sides and they lay silently facing each other for few minutes. Then she raised her shackled hands, "Please tell me you have the keys for these."  
  
"Keys?" he grinned, "We don't need no stinkin' keys." Reaching back into his nightstand drawer he pulled his lock pick case and, still inside her, proceeded to open the cuffs. If she had stayed still, he could have had her out in seconds, but she insisted on wriggling impatiently. By the time she was free, they were at it again, only this time she was the one urging him on, dragging her nails down his back and marking him as her own. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------  
  
Darien woke early at not quite five-thirty in the morning. He was still sore from the previous night's beating, but in spite of that he felt extraordinarily good. He was tempted to just lay back and luxuriate in the warmth of having an extra body in his bed, but if he knew Hobbes and Monroe, they'd be banging on his door in just a bit over an hour. He snorted silently at the mental image he got of Hobbes and Monroe banging, then slid from the bed and padded to the shower.  
  
Lola was already up when he emerged. She was standing in the kitchen making coffee wearing the grey "Obey" t-shirt he'd left rumpled on the chest beside his bed. She took one look at him in his towel and mock drawled, "Why, Mister Fawkes, I do believe you are making my mouth water."  
  
He grinned, then swaggered to meet her in the kitchen and dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. "Well, make sure you get an eyeful there, missy. It's gonna have to hold you for the rest of the day." He waggled his eyebrows at her and dropped his towel to the floor, strutting over to his dresser.  
  
"Oh my." She grinned and cocked an eyebrow of her own.  
  
"Yeah, I get that a lot," he deadpanned. He turned to his bureau and started removing his clothes for the day.  
  
Lola watched for a moment as he threw a pair of white briefs, some mismatched white athletic socks, a bright orange button down shirt and tan jeans on the bed. "I guess it's my turn to go and get cleaned up then."  
  
He heard her start strolling over to the bathroom. As he leaned down to pull his shoes out from under the bed, he felt a sharp swat on his butt. He stood up, whirled around and reached out to grab her. "Why you little."  
  
She was already gone, giggling, into the bathroom. He heard her still giggling as the shower started from behind the closed door. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------  
  
Darien took one last sip of his coffee and checked his watch. Crap, Hobbes and Monroe would be here any minute to pick him up for work. He didn't want them coming upstairs with Lola here, but he didn't want to go downstairs to meet them without saying goodbye. Just what was it that chicks did in the shower that took them so damn long? He shook his head and figured that that, like the meaning of life, was a question for the ages.  
  
The clock was still ticking, though, so he grabbed his jacket and keys, figuring he'd just poke his head into the shower for a quick see-you-later. He was halfway to the bathroom when he heard the knock at the door. "Uh, just a minute," he yelled out, frantically surveying his apartment for damage control. The place was a shambles with clothes strewn everywhere. Crap, crap, double crap.  
  
"What do you mean, 'just a minute'?" Hobbes replied, testing the doorknob and finding it locked. "Aw, Fawkes, do *not* tell me you overslept again."  
  
"Nah, nah, I'm ready, just, uh, give me a moment." Darien pulled Lola's thong from off the lamp and shoved it into his pants' pocket, then gathered up the rest of her clothes in a bundle with the intention of putting them in the bathroom for her.  
  
Another voice came through the door. "Would you just use your key, Bobby? I'm getting tired of standing out here in the hall." That was Monroe. Triple crap.  
  
He heard Bobby's key slide into the lock. Okay, if he could just make it to the bathroom first ..  
  
The front door opened. The bathroom door opened. An annoyed Hobbes and Monroe stood in the apartment doorway. A towel-wrapped Lola stood in the bathroom doorway. Darien stood in the middle of his apartment holding an armful of very feminine clothing.  
  
"Uh, hi, guys, what's up?"  
  
Hobbes snorted, Monroe quirked her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Lola, thank God, started laughing softly.  
  
"Agent Hobbes, Agent Monroe, how nice to see you again," she said dryly. Then she nonchalantly walked over to Darien and took the bundle of clothing out of his arms. "I'll just go get dressed in the bathroom." She returned to the bathroom and shut the door.  
  
Darien dropped his arms and turned to his fellow agents. "You know, when someone says 'Wait a minute,' it usually means something like, oh, I don't know, wait a *freakin'* minute."  
  
"Uhm, sorry there, buddy. We didn't mean to intrude on anything." Hobbes looked sheepish.  
  
"Yeah, we, uhm, thought you had overslept again." Good God, was Monroe actually embarrassed? Darien grinned wanly as he felt his world suddenly take a left turn into the surreal.  
  
Then the bathroom door opened again and Lola, still clad in a towel, marched out. She looked searchingly around the apartment, then questioningly at him. After a moment of looking him up and down, she reached out and pulled her forgotten thong out of his pocket. Okay, make that a sharp left turn.  
  
As he watched her svelte form returning to the bathroom, a mischievous thought occurred to him. He was already busted beyond belief; he might as well make the most of it. He still hadn't gotten his goodbye kiss, no reason now that he shouldn't make it interesting.  
  
He followed her into the bathroom and shut the door, only to be shoved out a moment or two later amid much giggling.  
  
"Get the hell out of here you grabby little son of a ...."  
  
Darien stood in front of the bathroom door, holding her towel and grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, you liked it last night," he teased.  
  
Lola popped her head out of the door. "Well, we didn't have an audience last night. Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's rude to play a game unless all your guests can participate?" And back she went, like a turtle pulling its head back into its shell.  
  
"Great," Darien groaned, "Last night she was Traci Lords; this morning she's Emily Post." He dropped the towel on the couch and turned to his two partners. "*This*," he accused Hobbes, "is all *your* fault and don't think I'm not going to make you pay for it."  
  
Hobbes held up his hands and shrugged in a "who me?" gesture. Monroe just stood there trying to look innocent.  
  
"Don't worry, big D," Lola's soft voice floated up behind him. "Traci's still here." Darien jumped as two small hands clamped firmly down on his butt. "She's just got to go to work." The hands slid around his hips and Lola's smiling face ducked under his arm as she came to stand in front of him. "Now, give me a kiss, you lug nut, and let me get out of here."  
  
So he did, kissing her for all he was worth and then some, screw the damn audience. When he released her, she looked slightly dazed, much to his satisfaction. "I'll pick you up after work at the shop for a late supper tonight, OK?"  
  
"Well that depends," she said. "Are we talking a real, honest-to-God, sit- down restaurant and not Poncho's or Chinese take out?" She waved her hand at the leftover take-out containers littering his counter.  
  
Darien laughed and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. We can even make it one of those God-awful, gourmet-type places you like?"  
  
"OK." Lola smiled, popped up her toes to give him a quick smooch and then was gone. Maybe it was the former New Yorker in her, but man, that girl could move quick when she wanted.  
  
Darien jingled his keys and started towards the door and his two partners. "Okay you guys, let's get this show on the road. Fat man's probably already had a cow waiting for us."  
  
"Oh sure, you first there, partner." Both Hobbes and Monroe motioned for Darien to exit the apartment. As they started down the stairs, Bobby was the first to break.  
  
"Lug nut?" he snorted.  
  
"Big D?" Alex choked out.  
  
Darien sighed. It was going to be a long, *long* day. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------  
  
Hobbes and Alex were still giggling like schoolgirls halfway to the Agency. "Alright, already, alright. Are you two through?" Darien half-heartedly grumbled from the back of the van. "I mean it, don't you two have some kind of secret-agent-y stuff to discuss here rather than snickering over my love life?"  
  
"What'sa matter, there, partner? We killing your afterglow?" Bobby asked as he casually changed lanes.  
  
"Hey, I'm just trying to act like a professional here," Darien countered, then glared at Alex when she snorted, "Of course if you two are jealous, just 'cuz I got lucky and you didn't ...."  
  
"Hey, hey, hold on there, Gilligan, who said we didn't get lucky?" The older agent brought the van to an abrupt halt at a red light.  
  
"Lucky?" Darien's eyes widened, then narrowed as if just by concentrating he could see past Hobbes' dark sunglasses, "really?"  
  
"That's right," Bobby assured him, "We got lucky, didn't we, Alex?" The female agent gave a wide smile, nodded and murmured, "Ah hah," at an astonished Darien.  
  
"You mean you two? Together?" Darien passed a hand across his forehead, then jolted back as the van started to move again. "Whoa, that's gonna take some serious mental adjusting ...."  
  
"And Amarillo," Alex tossed in breathlessly.  
  
"And Amar ...," Darien swiveled to face Alex, "OK, now you're just playing with me."  
  
"Ah hah," said Bobby, "So much for acting like a professional. Get your mind out of the gutter, there, Fawkesy. What my dear Miss Monroe means is that once we got Amarillo into custody he sang like the proverbial canary."  
  
"What is it with all these bird references, lately?" Darien asked.  
  
Monroe quirked her eyebrows at him, "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Ah, nothing, never mind," Darien shook his head as if to clear it, "so what did Amarillo have to say? He confessed right ... to smuggling the cigarettes?"  
  
"Oh yeah, he confessed. Nobody goes toe to toe with Bobby Hobbes in the interrogation box, my friend, and don't confess," Bobby nodded his head firmly. "But that ain't all."  
  
Darien leaned forward towards his partner. "Don't tell me -- the butts were laced with drugs, right? Man, I really am good at this investigation stuff ...."  
  
"Hold on there, Inspector Cluseau," Monroe said. "Don't go congratulating yourself too soon. As a matter of fact, Amarillo did admit to smuggling the cigarettes into the country. But he claims he was only the middleman. Seems he was approached by someone working for Mariposa Importers who he says paid him to bring the cigarettes into the country."  
  
"OK, but why would Mariposa want Amarillo to smuggle the cigarettes into the country for them. I mean considering they do have the word 'Importers' in their name it would seem to imply that they're in the business of importing things, no?"  
  
"Well, that's a good question there, Fawkes," Bobby mused, "but I got an even better one for you: why would Mariposa Importers ask Amarillo to legally import the cigarettes and still charge less than the going rate?"  
  
"What? You mean Mariposa didn't want Amarillo to smuggle the cigarettes in to avoid the tax charges?" Both agents nodded at Darien. "And then they still wanted him to sell the cigarettes at below cost?" Both agents nodded at him again. "So they were willing to not only pay Amarillo to import the cigarettes but also eat the tariffs just to make sure these things were cheaper than any other cigarettes out there?" Once again both agents heads bobbed.  
  
"You got it," Monroe said.  
  
"Well, I've run a few cons in my time, but I gotta tell you this sounds like the screwiest one I've ever heard. I mean, where are they making the money?"  
  
"Well, that would be the $65,000 question, now wouldn't it?" Bobby pulled up and parked the van in front of the Agency. "Unless of course, this scam ain't about making money."  
  
"Well, if it's not about making money," Darien asked as he climbed out the back of the van, "what *is* it about?"  
  
"And that, my friend, would be the $1 million question," Bobby answered following his two fellow agents into the building and down to the Keep. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------  
  
'I still stay they're laced with drugs. Maybe not by this Amarillo dude, but then by Mariposa," Darien stepped from elevator still regaling his two partners with his favorite theory.  
  
"Think, Fawkes, for God's sake," Alex swiped her access card and the doors to the Keep swished open. "If the cigarettes *were* laced with drugs, would Mariposa have wanted Amarillo to legally import them?"  
  
"Yeah, but if they aren't why have Amarillo import them at all? Why not just do it themselves?"  
  
"Because of the bugs," Claire stated.  
  
"Huh?" All three agents stared at the Keeper.  
  
"The bugs. These samples that you provided me with yesterday, Darien, are *full* of eggs for the Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter."  
  
"Glassy eyed ...." Darien instantly dropped the cigarette he'd been playing with. "They're not like spiders or something?"  
  
"No, they're more along the lines of the Med Fly. The Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter lives by sucking the sap out of grape vines and citrus crops. Besides the cigarettes don't contain the bugs themselves, just the eggs, which should remain dormant under normal use conditions."  
  
Bobby walked over to where Claire sat and began fiddling with her microscope. "So wait, you're telling me these guys are trying to get folks hooked on *bugs*?"  
  
"No, no," Claire slapped Bobby's hands away from her equipment, "the nicotine addiction is probably more than adequate for their purposes ...."  
  
"Which brings me back to my question: just what are their purposes? I mean can these bugs harm people?" Darien leaned over Claire's shoulder to peer into her microscope.  
  
Claire gave an exasperated sigh and stamped her foot at Darien who quickly retreated from the Keeper's toys. "Well, no, not directly," she explained. "The people smoking these probably have no idea that there's anything in these cigarettes except tobacco. They're totally transparent in terms of taste, and in fact, the eggs are completely infecund under regular circumstances. *But* when damp, the tobacco *is* a perfect incubating material ...."  
  
"You mean, like in a wet field, say?" Hobbes chimed in.  
  
"Why yes, Bobby," Claire answered. "What are you thinking?"  
  
"Yeah, you wanna clue the rest of the Super Friends in here, Captain America?" Darien leaned against the administering chair and scratched his chin.  
  
"Fawkes, Fawkes, when are you gonna wake up and smell the coffee? The first guy you got the cigarettes from, where'd he work?"  
  
"Uh, Plains View Farms."  
  
"That's right. A produce farm. And produce farms, my friend, are exactly where a great majority of the immigrant population works ...."  
  
"The same people who are being targeted with these cigarettes," Alex finished Bobby's sentence.  
  
Claire glared at the two as Bobby picked up Alex's thread, "And what do you want to bet that all those workers aren't being too careful about where they throw their butts while they're out working in the fields?"  
  
"Which are being irrigated due to the drought," the scientist in Claire took over and she quickly fell in sync with Hobbes' hypothesis, "which means that the fields are going to be infested with these pests, if they're not already. It could be devastating."  
  
"Whoa, devastating, Claire? I thought you said these things were harmless to people. That they were only a threat to grape vines."  
  
"No, I said they wouldn't harm the smokers *directly* and that under normal circumstances they only attacked certain crops. But even then they represent a very grim threat to a multi-billion dollar industry because they transmit a mosaic virus to the wine grapes and citrus fruits that kills the plants in one season," Claire pushed her bangs out of her face, "These, however, are not your run-of-the-mill, average Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter eggs. These have been genetically altered so that the virus they transmit can jump species of flora. That means they're not just a danger to grapevines, but rather to *all* types of produce -- citrus, almonds, fruit, corn, you name it. In fact, just one pack of these cigarettes carries enough eggs to wipe out an entire farm. And if, as Bobby says, these things have been discarded in fields throughout the area," Claire set her pretty pout into a somber line, "well, we're looking at crop destruction on a scale that could make the Med Fly epidemic of the early 80s look like a minor annoyance. The result would be widespread famine, not just in this state but across the entire nation and the obliteration of the California agricultural industry, which would crush the state's entire economy."  
  
Darien paled at Claire's use of the word 'obliteration' and looked from one grim face to another and another. "OK," he said finally, "it pains me to say this, but I think it's time to see the Fat Man." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
"It's Arnaud."  
  
"I'm putting my money on Stark."  
  
"No, no, it's *so* obviously Islamic bioterrorists."  
  
"People!" The Official barked over the tumult of suggestions being offered by the agents around his conference table, "We will know in due course who is responsible for such a contemptible threat to the public safety. In the meantime, this exigency demands our swift and rapid response. Now, suggestions on how to eradicate these pests?"  
  
"Well, sir," Claire began, "one traditional remedy would be to burn the affected the crops. However, with a potential infestation this massive and given that the insects have been bio-engineered to attack many different crops, that solution would merely bring about the same starvation and economic destruction the bugs were designed to cause."  
  
"So, doctor, what do you propose?"  
  
"Given that crop burning is out of the question, the only other alternative is chemical pesticides. But that too is not without potential hazards since the application would have to be wide scale in nature thereby threatening anyone -- human or animal -- with a sensitivity to such chemicals. Which is why so many environmental groups have long opposed their use except in very limited scenarios" Claire looked around the table at her co-workers before delivering the coup de grace, "Then again, there's no guarantee that traditional pesticides would even work on these. I mean, whoever bio-engineered these bugs could very well have designed them to be resistant to commonly used industrial pesticides. I'd like to get a look at some of these bugs in their adult state so that I can fine-tune the exact mix of chemicals that will effectively eradicate the insects and their larvae while minimizing the potential threat of chemical contamination to the public, livestock, and wildlife."  
  
"Oh this is just great. So not only do we still not know who built these little buggers, we don't even know if we can stop 'em?" Darien placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.  
  
"Oh, we can stop 'em," Bobby swiveled in his chair to face first Darien, then the Keeper, "We'll stop 'em, you'll see. Claire ... the Keep'll find a way to stop 'em." Bobby gave a quick nod in Claire's direction. She blushed and mouthed a silent 'Thank you,' to Bobby.  
  
"And we do know who 'built' them, Darien." Eberts stood in the office doorway, a stack of computer paper in his arms.  
  
"Eberts, report," the Official barked.  
  
"When first tasked with the assignment to ascertain the identity of the party masterminding the production of these bio-genetically engineered insects, it seemed prudent to me to begin with the one party already known to have a stake in their distribution," Eberts plopped the stack of computer paper onto the conference table between Claire and Alex and began running through the report with his index finger, "Mariposa Importers. I ran a search program designed to identify and gather information on all of Mariposa's business dealings -- including company financials, major customers and corporate personnel files -- for the past seven years. The name of one top executive in particular caught my attention: Helene Noir."  
  
"So it is Chrysalis," Darien looked as if he'd just tasted something nasty.  
  
"Where do you come by that, Fawkesy?" Hobbes inquired.  
  
"Helene Noir, Helen Black," Darien looked down at the table, "Allianora ...."  
  
"Ah," Bobby nodded, "the mermaid."  
  
Alex huffed. "You mean the woman genetically altered by Chrysalis to carry massive amounts of water in her lungs which she then used to drown her victims by kissing them? I thought she was offed by Stark after she had a fling with 'loverboy' here?"  
  
"Thanks, Alex, that's very sensitive of you to put it like that," Darien grimaced at the woman, who simply shrugged.  
  
"I just call 'em the way I see 'em, Fawkes. Nothing personal," Alex turned to face Eberts. "So Eberts, if this Helene Noir is in fact the late, great Allianora, how is it that she's still on the payroll of Mariposa Importers?"  
  
"Well, as I began to explain before Agent Fawkes interrupted me ...." Eberts paused and gave a pointed look in Darien's direction.  
  
"Would you just get on with it, *Eberts*," Bobby pushed.  
  
"Shut up, Bobby," the Official pointed a warning finger at Hobbes. "Get on with it, Eberts."  
  
Eberts gave a long-suffering sigh. "Along with the similarity between Helene Noir's name and Allianora's customary pseudonym, it did not escape my notice that the word 'Mariposa' is Spanish for butterfly, lending further credence to my hypothesis that Chrysalis was somehow involved. In the hopes of providing further confirmation, I hacked into the company's server and accessed her employee record. It seems that Ms. Noir went on corporate sabbatical almost 11 months ago -- approximately the same time as Allianora's demise. I was also able to dig up information on Mariposa's venture capital funding and it seems that Cerberus Corporation had been a major investor. And we know from Darien's brief sojourn as a double agent that Cerberus is ...."  
  
"A front for Chrysalis," Bobby finished up, earning an annoyed glare from his clerical counterpart.  
  
"So I was right. It *is* Chrysalis. All right, give it up. Who da man?" Darien received a knuckle rap from Hobbes as he rose to leave. "Do I know my nemeses or do I know my nemeses?"  
  
"You got a gift there, partner," Bobby clapped the taller man on the shoulder as he followed Darien, "But you know, I still say it could have been Arnaud, my friend ...."  
  
Alex sighed and rolled her eyes. "And to think, I was a double major in criminal justice and psychology -- all so I could take two toddlers *bug hunting*," she muttered trailing the men out the door. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------- "Look, I'm just saying that I'm hungry, OK? Is that a crime?" Darien spread his hands in a plaintive gesture to his two partners in the front of the van.  
  
"Would you give it a rest, Darien? Good God, the way you whine you'd think you were starving," Alex whinged back at him.  
  
"Hey, I *am* starving over here. I mean, Hobbes didn't even let me get breakfast this morning ...." The pout was audible in Darien's voice.  
  
"Oh, so what, now it's *my* fault," Hobbes called from the driver's seat. "Two mornings in a row I ask if you want to go get breakfast. Two mornings in a row you refuse to go anywhere *near* the friggin' bakery. This morning you wake up with the baker in your bed and it's *my* fault you didn't get breakfast ...."  
  
"Hey, hey, why do you think I needed breakfast this morning? I expended a lot of energy last night." Darien gave a smug grin and clasped his hands behind his head.  
  
"Hehehe," laughed Bobby.  
  
"Oh, I *so* don't want to hear this," Alex announced.  
  
Bobby looked at her and quirked his eyebrows, "What? What don't you want to hear?"  
  
"The boasting, the locker room talk that Fawkes has been waiting to do all day."  
  
"I am *not* boasting, Alex. I'm just explaining why I'm so hungry. And I have never indulged in locker room talk," Darien protested, "I never wanted to make the other guys feel bad, you know?" Darien huffed on his fingernails then buffed them on his orange shirt.  
  
Alex just stared at him. "Oh, I am *so* sure. Anyways, you two be good little boys and keep your lips zipped on this topic until after we're done for the day and I'm out of earshot. Then you can gloat to your heart's content over a nice late lunch at whatever strip joint you two favor."  
  
Bobby pulled the van to a stop outside Plains View Farms' front gates. "You know, Alex, I take offense at your stereotyping. Bobby Hobbes has no need to frequent striptease parlors, my friend. Bobby Hobbes has more class than that. Not to mention *plenty* of female companionship when I want it."  
  
"Yeah, that's just great, Bobby," Darien assured him, "Now can we just get Claire's bugs so I can go eat?"  
  
"Oh, I think it may be a bit more complicated than that, Darien," said Alex, as she pointed at the plume of black smoke rising from one of the fields. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------  
  
'Yup, that's an entire season's worth of one of my biggest cash crops burning there," the tall, thin man bent his silver head and spat on the ground right between his cowboy boots. "Broccolini -- biggest thing to happen in the produce market since grape tomatoes. Thirsty little critters they are too. We've spent more time and money irrigating these fields than any of the other crops. I figure that's about $30,000 for seed and water costs alone going up in smoke. Worst thing to happen since my great- granddaddy started this farm."  
  
"Look, Mr. Dunn, we're sure this is traumatic for you but we need to ask you a few questions ...."  
  
"Oh, now listen, you just call me, Teddy, little lady."  
  
"Alex," Monroe clenched her fists. "My name is Agent Alex Monroe."  
  
"Right, right, whatever you say, sweetheart. Now you all are with the Department of Agriculture, right?"  
  
Alex visibly tensed and Bobby stepped between the farmer and the female five-star. "No, sir, not exactly. We're with the Department of Fish and Game ...."  
  
"Well, I don't see what the Department of Fish and Game wants with a field of burnt vegetables, no, sir, I don't."  
  
"Uh, Teddy, right?" Darien tried his hand at getting through to the farmer. "We're, uhm, on special assignment, you know, sort of on loan to the Department of Agriculture ...."  
  
Bobby warmed up to his partner's lead-in, "Yes, sir, we're working a high priority case due to our, ahem, unique experience with this sort of threat ...."  
  
"Oh, oh, you mean you all are experts on agricultural pests like the Sharpshooter?"  
  
"Ah yeah, that's right, we're experts," Darien readily agreed. "Wait a minute, you mean you know about the Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter?"  
  
"Look, son, I told you my great-granddaddy started this farm. You think I can't tell what's wrong with my damn crops just by looking at 'em. It's the damndest thing though. I ain't never seen a Sharpshooter jump from field to field like this. Usually they stick with the citrus or if you've got grapes. They *love* them grapes. But these here, they infest one field and before you can turn around they're in the next three. Sprays don't seem to do any good and if you burn one field they just pop right back up on another at the other end of the farm. I mean they're already in my damn cucumbers. Lord only knows where they're coming from."  
  
"You know what, Teddy?" Alex coaxed, "Do you think we could see that field and maybe get a sample of those insects?"  
  
"Why sure, honey, you just hop on into my truck here and I'll be glad to take you and your two boyfriends over ...." Alex gave a tight smile, grit her teeth and followed. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
Claire slid her long-handled pincers into the sample jar and selected one of the remaining insects. With Bobby and Alex watching over either shoulder, she pinned the sample to a petri dish and carefully squeezed two drips from an eyedropper onto it.  
  
"Ah hah!," Claire cried.  
  
"What? Did you figure it out, Claire?" Darien jumped off the administering chair, his excitement overriding his better judgement as he moved closer to the insects still buzzing in the jar, as well as the long line of them pinned in the row of discarded petri dishes crowding the countertop.  
  
"Almost, I think,' the blonde scientist replied. "This formula seemed to stun the insect, but I think with the addition of just a bit of malathion, it will kill the adult and the larvae. Thankfully, the Department of Agriculture has already been researching new pesticides to deal with the ongoing threat from normal Sharpshooters," Claire swiveled in her chair to face the three agents, waving the stunned bug in their faces and driving Darien back to the safety of his administering chair. "You see, much like pharmaceutical companies are always striving to develop new forms of antibiotics as bacteria become more and more resistant to the old ones, the Department of Agriculture is constantly testing new types of chemical compounds in anticipation of insects adapting to the ones already in use. In this instance, even though this strain of Sharpshooter did not arise naturally, the research they've been undertaking has proven invaluable."  
  
Claire dropped the petri dish she'd been gesturing with and began typing a series of highly confusing chemical symbols into her computer. Bobby poked at the bug. "So that's it then? You've solved it, Keepie?"  
  
"Not exactly, Bobby. The Department of Agriculture's labs are much better equipped to test the various compounds in the large quantities that would normally be used in the farming industry. But with my notes and these samples, its scientists should be able to develop and implement a full- scale eradication program in no time at all. In fact, I've just emailed my findings so the Official can notify the Department of Agriculture to begin researching the exact formula immediately."  
  
Alex started towards the door. "I'll go let the Official know about our success. He'll be pleased ...."  
  
"Whoa, whoa, hold your horses there, Annie Oakley," Bobby followed hot on her heels. "Just exactly what makes you think *you* should be the one to let the Official know. After all I *am* the senior agent here ...." The rest of their squabble was cut off as the doors to Claire's sanctuary swished closed.  
  
"Well, I guess that's it. My work here is done," Claire quipped. She gathered up the remaining samples and crossed through the Keep's back door to the adjoining Lab 1.  
  
Darien jogged after her. "Hey wait a minute there, girly girl. There's a little something we need to discuss."  
  
"Like what?," Claire dropped the specimens onto a stainless steel tray, then opened the storage closet and removed a shipping container. "I mean, we solved the puzzle and the Official should already be notifying the Department of Agriculture who can most likely institute a spraying program for the adult insects and an inspection program to ensure that area fields are cleaned of all potentially egg-carrying cigarette butts within the week. Disaster averted; we foiled Chrysalis once again. Yay, us!" She playfully shook her fists at Darien as if they were pompoms.  
  
"How about like the fact that *I* have a date tonight. Yay, me!" He mimicked her fist shaking. "What about you?"  
  
"You have a date? Lola?" Claire laughed as Darien nodded his head vigorously at her. "That's wonderful." She popped the lid on the box, then taped the sides and addressed it in thick black marker.  
  
"Ah yeah, I think it's pretty nice myself." Darien gave a self-satisfied smirk. "'Course it was only a matter of time before my natural charm won her over."  
  
"Well, there's no accounting for taste, now, is there?" Claire grinned at him as she dropped the container into the box for outgoing deliveries and exited into the hall.  
  
"Cute. But you never answered my question," Darien reminded her as he followed her out.  
  
"Question," Claire blinked innocently. "What question?"  
  
"Don't play coy with me, missy. You know exactly what question I'm talking about. Are you going to go out with Bobby?"  
  
"Well, Darien, that's a little hard to answer seeing as he hasn't asked me out yet."  
  
"And what's the matter with your mouth? Seems to be working fine to me."  
  
"You expect *me* to ask *him* out?" She blinked at him.  
  
"What, are you still living in the dark ages? It's the 21st century, Claire, a chick can ask a dude out, you know."  
  
Claire gave a frustrated sigh. "Did he put you up to this? Did he tell you to come here and ...."  
  
"No, no, no," Darien waved his hand at her. "Bobby has no idea that I'm here and if he did, he'd kick my ass and you know it."  
  
"Well then, I guess the only thing standing between you and a severe ass kicking is me, huh?" she smiled sweetly at Darien. "And the best way to ensure that I keep my mouth shut, is to keep yours shut."  
  
Darien stared at her. "You know, I always knew you were devious, Claire, but that ... that's just ... *evil*."  
  
"Yes, I know," she stated proudly.  
  
"Man, you been hanging out with the 'Fish too long," Darien noted. "Hey, why don't you come out to lunch?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, it's kind of late for lunch and I've got a *ton* of work to do ...."  
  
"C'mon, you know you want to," Darien cooed to her. "Bobby's gonna be there ...."  
  
"Darien, I thought you were going to stop *that*."  
  
"Well, OK," Darien said off-handedly. "I guess Alex is gonna be the only girl again."  
  
"Alex." Claire stopped in her tracks just outside the ladies' room door. She grabbed Darien's arm and turned him to her. "Alex is going and so is Bobby?"  
  
"Yeah, we're going to the Sea Shack. Apparently they both love lobster. Could you please let go of my arm? You're stopping the blood flow."  
  
"Oh, I just bet she does," Claire released Darien and started jogging back towards the Keep. "Let me just grab my purse. I'll meet you all out in the parking lot in three minutes."  
  
Through the closing doors of the elevator, Darien watched her retreating form as she entered the Keep. A moment later he was stepping out onto the main floor when he ran into Alex. "Hey, Alex. You wanna go to lunch ...?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The great French statesman, George Clemenceau, once wrote, "A man's life is interesting primarily when he has failed -- I well know." And yeah, I do know about that. But 'ole George had a follow-up to that statement on failure, "For it is a sign that he tried to surpass himself." I think maybe now it's time for me to learn that part of the equation. Sure, maybe I'll lose the girl and get my ass kicked by the bad guys yet again. But hey, at least I can say I tried, and in the end, isn't that the real measure of a man? 


End file.
